In Time of Strife

Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, “If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light,— One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm.” Then he said, “Good-night!” and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church, By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade,— By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, “All is well!” A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay,— A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse’s side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height, A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns! A hurry of hoofs in the village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock, When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer’s dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. You know the rest. In the books you have read How the British Regulars fired and fled,— How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard wall, Chasing the redcoats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,— A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Ebenezer Eastman, of Gilmanton, is dead;— At least they had him buried full fifty years ago;— The gray White Mountain granite they set above his head, With some graven words upon it, to let the neighbors know Precisely what it was that made the grasses grow So wondrous rank and strong: How they rippled in the wind, As if nobody ever died, nobody ever sinned! To that old Bible name of his what eloquence was lent When its owner marched to battle,—not a ration, not a tent, Nor a promise nor a sign of a Continental cent! Ho, Ebenezer Eastman! We’ll call the roll again,— Ho, dead and gone Lieutenant of the old-time Minute-Men! Plowing land for turnips, with awkward Buck and Bright, Was stout Lieutenant Eastman, one lovely day in June; He “hawed” them to the left and he “geed” them to the right, And they slowly came about in the lazy summer noon, He humming to himself the fragment of a tune, Which he would croon at night to the baby-boy who lay In basswood trough becradled first, a week ago that day! . . . . . . . All at a flying gallop a rider swings in sight, Pulls up beside the fallow and gives the view-halloo,— His horse’s flanks are black, but his neck is foamy white:— “Turn out, Lieutenant Eastman! There’s something else to do! The redcoats are a-swarming! Your summer plowing’s through!” No other word—away! And the rattling of the hoofs Was like the rain from traveling clouds along the cabin roofs. The plowman turned his cattle out; he saddled up the bay, And he rallied out the wilderness upon that summer day, And the Minute-Men of Gilmanton to Boston marched away. About the mother? Well, she watched beside the cabin door, And rocked the baby’s basswood boat upon the puncheon floor. Days grew long in Gilmanton, and weeds among the corn; The quoiting ground was grassy, and louder rang the rill; The wrestling match was over,—the smithy was forlorn,— The spiders in the empty door had swung their webs at will,— The champions had gone to Bunker’s smoky Hill, To try the quaint old-fashioned “lock” they practiced on the Green, And such a game of tough “square hold” the world has seldom seen! About the father? Only this;—he fought in Stark’s brigade, On Charlestown Neck, that dusty day. A splendid mark he made; He never flinched a single inch when British cannon played, But foddered up an old rail fence with Massachusetts hay, Stood out the battle at the rack, and stoutly blazed away! Lo, through the smoky glory, that human flower-deluce, The gray-eyed Mary Butler, Lieutenant Eastman’s wife! Her pallid cheek and brow like a holy flag of truce, Her heart as sweet and red as a rose’s inner life, No murmur on her lips, nor sign of any strife. Four days before the fight. Has the little woman heard From anybody Boston way? Nobody—not a word! Then up rose Mary Butler, and set her wheel at rest; She swept the puncheon floor, she washed the cottage pride,— The cottage pride of three weeks old, and dressed him in his best,— She wound the clock that told the time her mother was a bride, And porringer and spoon she deftly laid aside; She strung a clean white apron across the window panes, And swung the kettle from the crane, for fear of rusting rains; Then tossed her saddle on the bay and donned her linen gown, And took the baby on before,—no looking round or down! Full seventy miles to Cambridge town! Bring out your civic crown! I think ’twill fit that brow of hers who sadly smiled and said: “We’ll know about your father, boy, and who is hurt or dead!” The maple woods that round her stand so solemn in the calm, Up and down are swaying slowly, like a singing-master’s palm, All together beating time,—not a soul to sing a psalm! “There’s been a dreadful battle!”—that’s what the neighbors said, “But when or where we cannot tell, nor who is hurt or dead.” Rugged maples broke their ranks to let the rider by, Fell in behind her noiseless as falls the stealthy dew; Such heavy folds of starless dark in double shadow lie, The slender bridle path she treads can only just show through, And buried in the leafy miles was all the world she knew. By muffled drum of partridge and jaunty jay-bird’s fife, That mother made her lonely march,—that Continental wife. She never drew the bridle rein till forty miles were done, And on her ended journey shone the second setting sun, And round the Bay, like battle clock, tolled out the evening-gun. Talk not of pomps and tournaments! If only you had seen The royal ride from Gilmanton, the halt at Cambridge Green! Dust-bedimmed and weary, with a look as though she smiled, She melted through the haze of the summer’s smoky gold! Some master’s faded picture of Madonna and the Child, Born full a thousand years ago, and never growing old! She heard old Putnam’s kennel growl, the bells of Charlestown tolled; She saw the golden day turn gray within an ashen shroud, That showed the scarlet regulars like lightning through a cloud. Forth from the furnace and the fire Lieutenant Eastman came,— The smell of powder in his clothes and fragrance in his fame,— And met her bravely waiting there, who bore his boy and name!— She from the howling wilderness—he from the hell of men, The little woman called the roll; he called it back again! Then lightly to the pillion the gray-eyed wife he swung, A bundle on the saddlebow all tenderly he placed, And, lost amid the leafy calms where cannon never rung, Away they rode to Gilmanton, her arm around his waist, No general’s sash of crimson silk so rarely could have graced! Ah, Mary Butler cannot die, whatever sextons say, While yet life’s azure pulses keep their old heroic play. . . . . . . . A million men have lingered long, a million men have died, Who never saw a deed so grand as Mary Butler’s ride! Benjamin Franklin Taylor.

’Twas May upon the mountains, and on the airy wing Of every floating zephyr came pleasant sounds of spring,— Of robins in the orchards, brooks running clear and warm, Or chanticleer’s shrill challenge from busy farm to farm. But, ranged in serried order, attent on sterner noise, Stood stalwart Ethan Allen and his “Green Mountain Boys,”— Two hundred patriots listening, as with the ears of one, To the echo of the muskets that blazed at Lexington! “My comrades,”—thus the leader spake to his gallant band,— “The key of all the Canadas is in King George’s hand, Yet, while his careless warders our slender armies mock, Good Yankee swords—God willing—may pick his rusty lock!” At every pass a sentinel was set to guard the way, Lest the secret of their purpose some idle lip betray, As on the rocky highway they marched with steady feet To the rhythm of the brave hearts that in their bosoms beat. The curtain of the darkness closed ’round them like a tent, When, travel-worn and weary, yet not with courage spent, They halted on the border of slumbering Champlain, And saw the watch lights glimmer across the glassy plain. O proud Ticonderoga, enthroned amid the hills! O bastions of old Carillon, the “Fort of Chiming Rills!” Well might your quiet garrison have trembled where they lay, And, dreaming, grasped their sabres against the dawn of day! In silence and in shadow the boats were pushed from shore, Strong hands laid down the musket to ply the muffled oar; The startled ripples whitened and whispered in their wake, Then sank again, reposing, upon the peaceful lake. Fourscore and three they landed, just as the morning gray Gave warning on the hilltops to rest not or delay; Behind, their comrades waited, the fortress frowned before, And the voice of Ethan Allen was in their ears once more: “Soldiers, so long united—dread scourge of lawless power! Our country, torn and bleeding, calls to this desperate hour. One choice alone is left us, who hear that high behest— To quit our claims to valor, or put them to the test! “I lead the storming column up yonder fateful hill, Yet not a man shall follow save at his ready will! There leads no pathway backward—’tis death or victory! Poise each his trusty firelock, ye that will come with me!” From man to man a tremor ran at their captain’s word,— (Like the “going” in the mulberry-trees that once King David heard),— While his eagle glances sweeping adown the triple line, Saw, in the glowing twilight, each even barrel shine! “Right face, my men, and forward!” Low-spoken, swift-obeyed! They mount the slope unfaltering—they gain the esplanade! A single drowsy sentry beside the wicket-gate, Snapping his aimless fusil, shouts the alarm—too late! They swarm before the barracks—the quaking guards take flight, And such a shout exultant resounds along the height, As rang from shore and headland scarce twenty years ago, When brave Montcalm’s defenders charged on a British foe! Leaps from his bed in terror the ill-starred Delaplace, To meet across his threshold a wall he may not pass! The bayonets’ lightning flashes athwart his dazzled eyes, And, in tones of sudden thunder, “Surrender!” Allen cries. “Then in whose name the summons?” the ashen lips reply. The mountaineer’s stern visage turns proudly toward the sky,— “In the name of great Jehovah!” he speaks with lifted sword, “And the Continental Congress, who wait upon His word!” Light clouds, like crimson banners, trailed bright across the east, As the great sun rose in splendor above a conflict ceased, Gilding the bloodless triumph for equal rights and laws, As with the smile of heaven upon a holy cause. Still, wave on wave of verdure, the emerald hills arise, Where once were heroes mustered from men of common guise, And still, on Freedom’s roster, through all her glorious years, Shine the names of Ethan Allen and his bold volunteers! Mary Anna Phinney Stansbury.

Round Quebec’s embattled walls Moodily the patriots lay; Dread disease within its thralls Drew them closer day by day; Till from suffering man to man, Mutinous, a murmur ran. Footsore, they had wandered far, They had fasted, they had bled; They had slept beneath the star With no pillow for the head; Was it but to freeze to stone In this cruel icy zone? Yet their leader held his heart, Naught discouraged, naught dismayed; Quelled with unobtrusive art Those that muttered; unafraid Waited, watchful, for the hour When his golden chance should flower. ’Twas the death-tide of the year; Night had passed its murky noon; Through the bitter atmosphere Pierced nor ray of star nor moon; But upon the bleak earth beat Blinding arrows of the sleet. While the trumpets of the storm Pealed the bastioned heights around, Did the dauntless heroes form, Did the low, sharp order sound. “Be the watchword Liberty!” Cried the brave Montgomery. Here, where he had won applause, When Wolfe faced the Gallic foe, For a nobler, grander cause Would he strike the fearless blow,— Smite at Wrong upon the throne, At Injustice giant grown. “Men, you will not fear to tread Where your general dares to lead! On, my valiant boys!” he said, And his foot was first to speed; Swiftly up the beetling steep, Lion-hearted, did he leap. Flashed a sudden blinding glare; Roared a fearsome battle-peal; Rang the gloomy vasts of air; Seemed the earth to rock and reel; While adown that fiery breath Rode the hurtling bolts of death. Woe for him, the valorous one, Now a silent clod of clay! Nevermore for him the sun Would make glad the paths of day; Yet ’twere better thus to die Than to cringe to tyranny!— Better thus the life to yield, Striking for the right and God, Upon Freedom’s gory field, Than to kiss Oppression’s rod! Honor, then, for all time be To the brave Montgomery! Clinton Scollard.

Spruce Macaronis, and pretty to see, Tidy and dapper and gallant were we; Blooded fine gentlemen, proper and tall, Bold in a fox-hunt and gay at a ball; Prancing soldados so martial and bluff, Billets for bullets, in scarlet and buff— But our cockades were clasped with a mother’s low prayer, And the sweethearts that braided the sword-knots were fair. There was grummer of drums humming hoarse in the hills, And the bugles sang fanfaron down by the mills. By Flatbush the bagpipes were droning amain, And keen cracked the rifles in Martense’s lane; For the Hessians were flecking the hedges with red, And the grenadiers’ tramp marked the roll of the dead. Three to one, flank and rear, flashed the files of St. George, The fierce gleam of their steel as the glow of a forge. The brutal boom-boom of their swart cannoneers Was sweet music compared with the taunt of their cheers— For the brunt of their onset, our crippled array, And the light of God’s leading gone out in the fray. Oh, the rout on the left and the tug on the right! The mad plunge of the charge and the wreck of the flight! When the cohorts of Grant held stout Stirling at strain, And the mongrels of Hesse went tearing the slain; When at Freeke’s Mill the flumes and the sluices ran red, And the dead choked the dike and the marsh choked the dead! “Oh, Stirling, good Stirling, how long must we wait? Shall the shout of your trumpet unleash us too late? Have you never a dash for brave Mordecai Gist, With his heart in his throat, and his blade in his fist? Are we good for no more than to prance in a ball, When the drums beat the charge and the clarions call?” Tralára! Tralára! Now praise we the Lord For the clang of His call and the flash of His sword! Tralára! Tralára! Now forward to die; For the banner, hurrah! and for sweethearts, good-by! “Four hundred wild lads!” May be so. I’ll be bound ’Twill be easy to count us, face up, on the ground. If we hold the road open, though Death take the toll, We’ll be missed on parade when the States call the roll— When the flags meet in peace and the guns are at rest, And fair Freedom is singing Sweet Home in the West. John Williamson Palmer.

Ah, you mistake me, comrades, to think that my heart is steel! Cased in a cold endurance, nor pleasure nor pain to feel; Cold as I am in my manner, yet over these cheeks so seared Teardrops have fallen in torrents, thrice since my chin grew beard. Thrice since my chin was bearded I suffered the tears to fall; Benedict Arnold, the traitor, he was the cause of them all! Once, when he carried Stillwater, proud of his valor, I cried; Then, with my rage at his treason—with pity when André died. Benedict Arnold, the traitor, sank deep in the pit of shame, Bartered for vengeance his honor, blackened for profit his fame; Yet never a gallanter soldier, whatever his after crime, Fought on the red field of honor than he in his early time. Ah, I remember Stillwater, as it were yesterday! Then first I shouldered a firelock, and set out the foemen to slay. The country was up all around us, racing and chasing Burgoyne, And I had gone out with my neighbors, Gates and his forces to join. Marched we with Poor and with Learned, ready and eager to fight; There stood the foemen before us, cannon and men on the height; Onward we trod with no shouting, forbidden to fire till the word; As silent their long line of scarlet—not one of them whispered or stirred. Suddenly, then, from among them smoke rose and spread on the breeze; Grapeshot flew over us sharply, cutting the limbs from the trees; But onward we pressed till the order of Cilley fell full on the ear; Then we leveled our pieces and fired them, and rushed up the slope with a cheer. Fiercely we charged on their center, and beat back the stout grenadiers, And wounded the brave Major Ackland, and grappled the swart cannoneers; Five times we captured their cannons, and five times they took them again; But the sixth time we had them we kept them, and with them a share of their men. Our colonel who led us dismounted, high on a cannon he sprang; Over the noise of our shouting clearly his joyous words rang; “These are our own brazen beauties! Here to America’s cause I dedicate each, and to freedom!—foes to King George and his laws!” Worn as we were with the struggle, wounded and bleeding and sore, Some stood all pale and exhausted; some lay there stiff in their gore; And round through the mass went a murmur, that grew to a whispering clear, And then to reproaches outspoken—“If General Arnold were here!” For Gates, in his folly and envy, had given the chief no command, And far in the rear some had seen him horseless and moodily stand, Knitting his forehead in anger, gnawing his red lip in pain, Fretting himself like a bloodhound held back from his prey by a chain. Hark, at our right there is cheering! there is the ruffle of drums! Here is the well-known brown charger! Spurring it madly he comes! Learned’s brigade have espied him, rending the air with a cheer; Woe to the terrified foeman, now that our leader is here! Piercing the tumult behind him, Armstrong is out on his track; Gates has dispatched his lieutenant to summon the fugitive back. Armstrong might summon the tempest, order the whirlwind to stay, Issue commands to the earthquake—would they the mandate obey? Wounds, they were healed in a moment! weariness instantly gone! Forward he pointed his sabre—led us, not ordered us on. Down on the Hessians we thundered, he, like a madman ahead; Vainly they strove to withstand us; raging, they shivered and fled. On to their earthworks we drove them, shaking with ire and dismay; There they made stand with a purpose to beat back the tide of the day. Onward we followed, then faltered; deadly their balls whistled free. Where was our death-daring leader? Arnold, our hope, where was he? He? He was everywhere riding! hither and thither his form, On the brown charger careering, showed us the path of the storm; Over the roar of the cannon, over the musketry’s crash, Sounded his voice, while his sabre lit up the way with its flash. Throwing quick glances around him, reining a moment his steed— “Brooks, that redoubt!” was his order; “let the rest follow my lead! Mark where the smoke-cloud is parting! see where the gun-barrels glance! Livingston, forward! On, Wesson, charge them! Let Morgan advance!” “Forward!” he shouted, and, spurring on through the sally-port then, Fell sword in hand on the Hessians, closely behind him our men. Back shrank the foemen in terror; off went their forces pellmell, Firing one Parthian volley; struck by it, Arnold, he fell. Ours was the day. Up we raised him; spurted the blood from his knee— “Take my cravat, boys, and bind it; I am not dead yet,” said he. “What! did you follow me, Armstrong? Pray, do you think it quite right, Leaving your duties out yonder, to risk your dear self in the fight?” “General Gates sent his orders”—faltering the aid-de-camp spoke— “You’re to return, lest some rashness—” Fiercely the speech Arnold broke: “Rashness! Why, yes, tell the general the rashness he dreaded is done! Tell him his kinsfolk are beaten! tell him the battle is won!” Oh, that a soldier so glorious, ever victorious in fight, Passed from a daylight of honor into the terrible night!— Fell as the mighty archangel, ere the earth glowed in space, fell— Fell from the patriot’s heaven down to the loyalist’s hell! Thomas Dunn English.

’Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the Stripes and Stars, And the whistling wind from the west-nor’-west blew through the pitch-pine spars,— With her starboard tacks a-board, my boys, she hung upon the gale, On an autumn night we raised the light on the old head of Kinsale. It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew steady and strong, As gaily over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along; With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread, And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cathead. There was no talk of shortening sail by him who walked the poop, And under the press of her pondering jib, the boom bent like a hoop! And the groaning waterways told the strain that held her stout main-tack, But he only laughed as he glanced abaft at the white and silvery track. The mid-tide meets in the channel waves that flow from shore to shore, And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore; And that sterling light on Tusker rock, where the old bell tolls the hour, And the beacon light that shone so bright was quenched on Waterford tower. The nightly robes our good ship wore were her three topsails set, The spanker and her standing jib, the spanker being fast; “Now, lay aloft, my heroes bold, let not a moment pass!” And royals and topgallant sails were quickly on each mast. What looms upon the starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze? ’Tis time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltees; For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts four We saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war. Up spoke our noble captain then, as a shot ahead of us passed, “Haul snug your flowing courses, lay your topsail to the mast!” The Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered ark, And we answered back by a solid broadside from the decks of our patriot bark. “Out, booms! Out, booms!” our skipper cried, “Out, booms, and give her sheet!” And the swiftest keel that ever was launched shot ahead of the British fleet. And amidst a thundering shower of shot, with stunsails hoisting away, Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer, just at the break of day. Anonymous.

Paul Revere was a rider bold— Well has his valorous deed been told; Sheridan’s ride was a glorious one— Often has it been dwelt upon. But why should men do all the deeds On which the love of a patriot feeds? Hearken to me, while I reveal The dashing ride of Jennie M’Neal. On a spot as pretty as might be found In the dangerous length of the Neutral Ground, In a cottage, cosy, and all their own, She and her mother lived alone. Safe were the two, with their frugal store, From all of the many who passed their door; For Jennie’s mother was strange to fears, And Jennie was large for fifteen years; With vim her eyes were glistening, Her hair was the hue of the blackbird’s wing; And while the friends who knew her well The sweetness of her heart could tell, A gun that hung on the kitchen wall Looked solemnly quick to heed her call; And they who were evil-minded knew Her nerve was strong and her aim was true. So all kind words and acts did deal To generous, black-eyed Jennie M’Neal. One night when the sun had crept to bed, And rain clouds lingered overhead, And sent their surly drops for proof To drum a tune on the cottage roof, Close after a knock at the outer door, There entered a dozen dragoons or more. Their red coats, stained by the muddy road, That they were British soldiers showed; The captain his hostess bent to greet, Saying, “Madam, please give us a bit to eat; We will pay you well, and, if may be, This bright-eyed girl for pouring our tea; Then we must dash ten miles ahead, To catch a rebel colonel abed. He is visiting home, as doth appear; We will make his pleasure cost him dear.” And they fell on the hasty supper with zeal, Close-watched the while by Jennie M’Neal. For the gray-haired colonel they hovered near Had been her true friend, kind and dear; And oft, in her younger days, had he Right proudly perched her upon his knee, And told her stories many a one Concerning the French war lately done. And oft together the two friends were, And many the arts he had taught to her; She had hunted by his fatherly side, He had shown her how to fence and ride; And once had said, “The time may be, Your skill and courage may stand by me.” So sorrow for him she could but feel, Brave, grateful-hearted Jennie M’Neal. With never a thought or a moment more, Bare-headed she slipped from the cottage door, Ran out where the horses were left to feed, Unhitched and mounted the captain’s steed, And down the hilly and rock-strewn way She urged the fiery horse of gray. Around her slender and cloakless form Pattered and moaned the ceaseless storm; Secure and tight, a gloveless hand Grasped the reins with stern command; And full and black her long hair streamed Whenever the ragged lightning gleamed. And on she rushed for the colonel’s weal, Brave, lioness-hearted Jennie M’Neal. Hark!—From the hills, a moment mute, Came a clatter of hoofs in hot pursuit; And a cry from the foremost trooper said, “Halt, or your blood be on your head!” She heeded it not, and not in vain She lashed the horse with the bridle rein. So into the night the gray horse strode; His shoes hewed fire from the rocky road; And the highborn courage that never dies Flashed from the rider’s coal-black eyes. The pebbles flew from that fearful race; The raindrops grasped at her glowing face. “On, on, brave beast!” with loud appeal, Cried eager, resolute Jennie M’Neal. “Halt!” once more came the voice of dread; “Halt, or your blood be on your head!” Then, no one answering to the calls, Sped after her a volley of balls. They passed her in their rapid flight, They screamed to her left, they screamed to her right; But, rushing o’er the slippery track, She sent no token of answer back, Except a silvery laughter-peal, Brave, merry-hearted Jennie M’Neal. So on she rushed, at her own good will, Through wood and valley, o’er plain and hill; The gray horse did his duty well, Till all at once he stumbled and fell, Himself escaping the nets of harm, But flinging the girl with a broken arm. Still undismayed by the numbing pain, She clung to the horse’s bridle rein, And gently bidding him to stand, Petted him with her able hand; Then sprung again to the saddlebow, And shouted, “One more trial now!” As if ashamed of the heedless fall He gathered his strength once more for all, And, galloping down a hillside steep, Gained on the troopers at every leap; No more the high-bred steed did reel, But ran his best for Jennie M’Neal. They were a furlong behind, or more, When the girl burst through the colonel’s door, Her poor arm hanging helpless with pain, And she all drabbled and drenched with rain, But her cheeks as red as firebrands are, And her eyes as bright as a blazing star; And shouted, “Quick, be quick, I say! They come! they come!—away! away!” Then sunk on the rude white floor of deal, Poor, brave, exhausted Jennie M’Neal. The startled colonel sprung, and pressed The wife and children to his breast, And turned away from his fireside bright, And glided into the stormy night; Then soon and safely made his way To where the patriot army lay. But first he bent, in the dim firelight, And kissed the forehead broad and white, And blessed the girl who had ridden so well To keep him out of a prison cell. The girl roused up at the martial din, Just as the troopers came rushing in, And laughed, e’en in the midst of a moan, Saying, “Good sirs, your bird has flown. ’Tis I who have scared him from his nest; So deal with me now as you think best.” But the grand young captain bowed, and said, “Never you hold a moment’s dread. Of womankind I must crown you queen: So brave a girl I have never seen. Wear this gold ring as your valor’s due, And when peace comes I will come for you.” But Jennie’s face an arch smile wore, As she said, “There’s a lad in Putnam’s corps Who told me the same, long time ago; You two would never agree, I know. I promised my love to be true as steel,” Said good, sure-hearted Jennie M’Neal. Will Carleton.

Our band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion’s name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress tree; We know the forest round us As seamen know the sea; We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass. Woe to the English soldiery That little dread us near! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear; When, waking to their tents on fire, They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind. Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil; We talk the battle over, And share the battle’s spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier’s cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves. Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads— The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. ’Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain; ’Tis life to feel the night-wind That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp— A moment—and away, Back to the pathless forest Before the peep of day. Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs; Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band, With kindest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton Forever from our shore. William Cullen Bryant.

By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw swore He would scourge us from the seas; Yankees should trouble his soul no more— By the Prophet’s beard the Bashaw swore, Then lighted his hookah, and took his ease, And troubled his soul no more. The moon was dim in the western sky, And a mist fell soft on the sea, As we slipped away from the Siren brig And headed for Tripoli. Behind us the hulk of the Siren lay, Before us the empty night; And when again we looked behind The Siren was gone from our sight. Nothing behind us, and nothing before, Only the silence and rain, As the jaws of the sea took hold of our bows And cast us up again. Through the rain and the silence we stole along, Cautious and stealthy and slow, For we knew the waters were full of those Who might challenge the Mastico. But nothing we saw till we saw the ghost Of the ship we had come to see, Her ghostly lights and her ghostly frame Rolling uneasily. And as we looked, the mist drew up And the moon threw off her veil, And we saw the ship in the pale moonlight, Ghostly and drear and pale. Then spoke Decatur low and said: “To the bulwarks’ shadow all! But the six who wear the Tripoli dress Shall answer the sentinel’s call.” “What ship is that?” cried the sentinel. “No ship,” was the answer free; “But only a Malta ketch in distress Wanting to moor in your lee. “We have lost our anchor, and wait for day To sail into Tripoli town, And the sea rolls fierce and high to-night, So cast a cable down.” Then close to the frigate’s side we came, Made fast to her unforbid— Six of us bold in the heathen dress, The rest of us lying hid. But one who saw us hiding there “Americano!” cried. Then straight we rose and made a rush Pellmell up the frigate’s side. Less than a hundred men were we, And the heathen were twenty score; But a Yankee sailor in those old days Liked odds of one to four. And first we cleaned the quarter deck, And then from stern to stem We charged into our enemies And quickly slaughtered them. All around was the dreadful sound Of corpses striking the sea, And the awful shrieks of dying men In their last agony. The heathen fought like devils all, But one by one they fell, Swept from the deck by our cutlasses To the water, and so to hell. Some we found in the black of the hold, Some to the fo’c’s’le fled, But all in vain; we sought them out And left them lying dead; Till at last no soul but Christian souls Upon that ship was found; The twenty score were dead, and we, The hundred, safe and sound. And, stumbling over the tangled dead, The deck a crimson tide, We fired the ship from keel to shrouds And tumbled over the side. Then out to sea we sailed once more, With the world as light as day, And the flames revealed a hundred sail Of the heathen there in the bay. All suddenly the red light paled, And the rain rang out on the sea; Then—a dazzling flash, a deafening roar, Between us and Tripoli! Then, nothing behind us, and nothing before, Only the silence and rain; And the jaws of the sea took hold of our bows And cast us up again. By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw swore He would scourge us from the seas; Yankees should trouble his soul no more— By the Prophet’s beard the Bashaw swore. Then lighted his hookah, and took his ease, And troubled his soul no more. Barrett Eastman.

The captain of the Shannon came sailing up the bay, A reeling wind flung out behind his pennons bright and gay; His cannon crashed a challenge; the smoke that hid the sea Was driven hard to windward and drifted back to lee. The captain of the Shannon sent word into the town: Was Lawrence there, and would he dare to sail his frigate down And meet him at the harbor’s mouth and fight him, gun to gun, For honor’s sake, with pride at stake, until the fight was won? Now, long the gallant Lawrence had scoured the bitter main; With many a scar and wound of war his ship was home again; His crew, relieved from service, were scattered far and wide, And scarcely one, his duty done, had lingered by his side. But to refuse the challenge? Could he outlive the shame? Brave men and true, but deadly few, he gathered to his fame. Once more the great ship Chesapeake prepared her for the fight,— “I’ll bring the foe to town in tow,” he said, “before to-night!” High on the hills of Hingham that overlook the shore, To watch the fray and hope and pray, for they could do no more, The children of the country watched the children of the sea When the smoke drove hard to windward and drifted back to lee. “How can he fight,” they whispered, “with only half a crew, Though they be rare to do and dare, yet what can brave men do?” But when the Chesapeake came down, the Stars and Stripes on high, Stilled was each fear, and cheer on cheer resounded to the sky. The captain of the Shannon, he swore both long and loud: “This victory, where’er it be, shall make two nations proud! Now onward to this victory or downward to defeat! A sailor’s life is sweet with strife, a sailor’s death as sweet.” And as when lightnings rend the sky and gloomy thunders roar, And crashing surge plays devil’s dirge upon the stricken shore, With thunder and with sheets of flame the two ships rang with shot, And every gun burst forth a sun of iron crimson-hot. And twice they lashed together and twice they tore apart, And iron balls burst wooden walls and pierced each oaken heart. Still from the hills of Hingham men watched with hopes and fears, While all the bay was torn that day with shot that rained like tears. The tall masts of the Chesapeake went groaning by the board; The Shannon’s spars were weak with scars when Broke cast down his sword: “Now woe,” he cried, “to England, and shame and woe to me!” The smoke drove hard to windward and drifted back to lee. “Give them one breaking broadside more,” he cried, “before we strike!” But one grim ball that ruined all for hope and home alike Laid Lawrence low in glory, yet from his pallid lip Rang to the land his last command: “Boys, don’t give up the ship!” . . . . . . . The wounded wept like women when they hauled her ensign down. Men’s cheeks were pale as with the tale from Hingham to the town They hurried swift in silence, while toward the eastern night The victor bore away from shore and vanished out of sight. Hail to the great ship Chesapeake! Hail to the hero brave Who fought her fast, and loved her last, and shared her sudden grave! And glory be to those that died, for all eternity; They lie apart at the mother-heart of God’s eternal sea. Thomas Tracy Bouvé.

Tell the story to your sons Of the gallant days of yore, When the brig of seven guns Fought the fleet of seven score, From the set of sun till morn, through the long September night— Ninety men against two thousand, and the ninety won the fight In the harbor of Fayal the Azore. Three lofty British ships came a-sailing to Fayal: One was a line-of-battle ship, and two were frigates tall; Nelson’s valiant men of war, brave as Britons ever are, Manned the guns they served so well at Aboukir and Trafalgar. Lord Dundonald and his fleet at Jamaica far away Waited eager for their coming, fretted sore at their delay. There was loot for British valor on the Mississippi coast In the beauty and the booty that the Creole cities boast; There were rebel knaves to swing, there were prisoners to bring Home in fetters to old England for the glory of the King! At the setting of the sun and the ebbing of the tide Came the great ships one by one, with their portals opened wide, And their cannon frowning down on the castle and the town And the privateer that lay close inside; Came the eighteen-gun Carnation, and the Rota, forty-four, And the triple-decked Plantagenet an Admiral’s pennon bore; And the privateer grew smaller as their topmasts towered taller, And she bent her springs and anchored by the castle on the shore. Spoke the noble Portuguese to the stranger: “Have no fear; They are neutral waters these, and your ship is sacred here As if fifty stout armadas stood to shelter you from harm, For the honor of the Briton will defend you from his arm.” But the privateersman said, “Well we know the Englishmen, And their faith is written red in the Dartmoor slaughter-pen. Come what fortune God may send, we will fight them to the end, And the mercy of the sharks may spare us then.” “Seize the pirate where she lies!” cried the English Admiral: “If the Portuguese protect her, all the worse for Portugal!” And four launches at his bidding leaped impatient for the fray, Speeding shoreward where the Armstrong, grim and dark and ready, lay. Twice she hailed and gave them warning; but the feeble menace scorning, On they came in splendid silence, till a cable’s length away. Then the Yankee pivot spoke; Pico’s thousand echoes woke; And four baffled, beaten launches drifted helpless on the bay. Then the wrath of Lloyd arose till the lion roared again, And he called out all his launches and he called five hundred men; And he gave the word “No quarter!” and he sent them forth to smite. Heaven help the foe before him when the Briton comes in might! Heaven helped the little Armstrong in her hour of bitter need; God Almighty nerved the heart and guided well the arm of Reid. Launches to port and starboard, launches forward and aft, Fourteen launches together striking the little craft. They hacked at the boarding-nettings, they swarmed above the rail; But the Long Tom roared from his pivot and the grapeshot fell like hail; Pike and pistol and cutlass, and hearts that knew not fear, Bulwarks of brawn and mettle, guarded the privateer. And ever where fight was fiercest the form of Reid was seen: Ever where foes drew nearest, his quick sword fell between. Once in the deadly strife The boarder’s leader pressed Forward of all the rest Challenging life for life; But ere their blades had crossed A dying sailor tossed His pistol to Reid, and cried, “Now riddle the lubber’s hide!” But the privateersman laughed, and flung the weapon aside, And he drove his blade to the hilt, and the foeman gasped and died. Then the boarders took to their launches, laden with hurt and dead, But little with glory burdened, and out of the battle fled. Now the tide was at flood again, and the night was almost done, When the sloop-of-war came up with her odds of two to one, And she opened fire; but the Armstrong answered her, gun for gun, And the gay Carnation wilted in half an hour of sun. Then the Armstrong, looking seaward, saw the mighty seventy-four, With her triple tier of cannon, drawing slowly to the shore. And the dauntless captain said: “Take our wounded and our dead, Bear them tenderly to land, for the Armstrong’s days are o’er; But no foe shall tread her deck, and no flag above it wave— To the ship that saved our honor we will give a shipman’s grave.” So they did as he commanded, and they bore their mates to land With the figurehead of Armstrong and the good sword in his hand. Then they turned the Long Tom downward, and they pierced her oaken side, And they cheered her, and they blessed her, and they sunk her in the tide. Tell the story to your sons, When the haughty stranger boasts Of his mighty ships and guns And the muster of his hosts, How the word of God was witnessed in the gallant days of yore When the twenty fled from one ere the rising of the sun, In the harbor of Fayal the Azore! James Jeffrey Roche.

To Houston at Gonzales town, ride, Ranger, for your life, Nor stop to say good-by 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 horde 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.

“Now for a brisk and a 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, Almontê 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 it 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 Almontê’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.

We were not many—we who stood Before the iron sleet that day; Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if he but could Have been with us at Monterey. Now here, now there, the shot it hailed In deadly drifts of fiery spray, Yet not a single soldier quailed When wounded comrades round them wailed 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 recoiled aghast, When, striking where he strongest lay, We swooped his flanking batteries past, And, braving full their murderous blast, Stormed 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 pressed Beside the brave who fell that day; But who of us has not confessed He’d rather share their warrior rest Than not have been at Monterey? Charles Fenno Hoffman.

All night upon the guarded hill, Until the stars were low, Wrapped round as with Jehovah’s will, We waited for the foe; All night the silent sentinels Moved by like gliding ghosts; All night the fancied warning bells Held all men to their posts. We heard the sleeping prairies breathe, The forest’s human moans, The hungry gnashing of the teeth Of wolves on bleaching bones; We marked the roar of rushing fires, The neigh of frightened steeds, The voices as of far-off lyres Among the river reeds. We were but thirty-nine who lay Beside our rifles then; We were but thirty-nine, and they Were twenty hundred men. Our lean limbs shook and reeled about, Our feet were gashed and bare, And all the breezes shredded out Our garments in the air. . . . . . . . They came: the blessed Sabbath day, That soothed our swollen veins, Like God’s sweet benediction, lay On all the singing plains; The valleys shouted to the sun, The great woods clapped their hands, And joy and glory seemed to run Like rivers through the lands. And then our daughters and our wives, And men whose heads were white, Rose sudden into kingly lives And walked forth to the fight; And we drew aim along our guns And calmed our quickening breath, Then, as is meet for Freedom’s sons, Shook loving hands with Death. And when three hundred of the foe Rode up in scorn and pride, Whoso had watched us then might know That God was on our side; For all at once a mighty thrill Of grandeur through us swept, And strong and swiftly down the hill Like Gideons we leapt. And all throughout that Sabbath day A wall of fire we stood, And held the baffled foe at bay, And streaked the ground with blood. And when the sun was very low They wheeled their stricken flanks, And passed on, wearily and slow, Beyond the river banks. Beneath the everlasting stars We bended child-like knees, And thanked God for the shining scars Of His large victories. And some, who lingered, said they heard Such wondrous music pass As though a seraph’s voice had stirred The pulses of the grass. Richard Realf.

Ebbed and flowed the muddy Pei-Ho by the Gulf of Pechi-Li, Near its waters swung the yellow dragon-flag; Past the batteries of China, looking westward we could see Lazy junks along the lazy river lag; Villagers in near-by Ta-Kou toiled beneath their humble star, On the flats the ugly mud-fort lay and dreamed; While the Powhatan swung slowly at her station by the bar, While the Toey-Wan with Tattnall onward steamed. Lazy East and lazy river, fort of mud in lazy June, English gunboats through the waters slowly fare, With the dragon-flag scarce moving in the lazy afternoon O’er the mud-heap storing venom in the glare. We were on our way to Pekin, to the Son of Heaven’s throne, White with peace was all our mission to his court; Peaceful, too, the English vessels on the turbid waters strown, Seeking passage up to Pekin past the fort. By the bar lay half the English, while the rest with gallant Hope Wrestled with the slipping ebb-tide up the stream; They had cleared the Chinese irons, reached the doubled chain and rope Where the ugly mud-fort scowled upon their beam;— Crash! the heavens split asunder with the thunder of the fight As the hateful dragon made its faith a mock; Every cannon spat its perfidy, each casemate blazed its spite, Dashing down upon the English, shock on shock. In his courage Rason perished, bold McKenna fought and fell, Scores were dying as they’d lived, like valiant men; And the meteor flag that upward prayed to heaven from that hell Wept below for those who ne’er should weep again. Far away the English launches near the Powhatan swung slow, All despairing, useless, out of reach of war, Saw their comrades in the battle, saw them reel beneath the blow, Lying helpless ’gainst the ebb-tide by the bar. On the Toey-Wan stood Tattnall, Stephen Trenchard at his side,— “Old Man” Tattnall, he who dared at Vera Cruz,— Saw here, crippled by the cannon, saw there, throttled by the tide, Men of English blood and speech: Could he refuse? “I’ll be damned,” says he to Trenchard, “if ‘Old’ Tattnall’s standing by Seeing white men butchered here by such a foe! Where’s my barge? No side-arms, mind you! See the English fight and die! Blood is thicker, sir, than water. Let us go!” Quick we man the barge, and quicker plunge into that devil’s-brew— “An official call,” and Tattnall went in state: Trenchard’s hurt, our flag in ribbons, and the lunging boat shot through, Hart, our coxswain, dies beneath the Chinese hate; But the cheers those English give us as we gain their Admiral’s ship Make the shattered barge and weary arms seem light— Then the rare smile from “Old” Tattnall and Hope’s hearty word and grip, Bleeding though he was, and brave in hell’s despite. Tattnall nods and we go forward, find a gun no longer fought— What is peace to us, when all its crew lie dead? One bright English lad brings powder and a wounded man brings shot, And we scotch that Chinese dragon, tail and head. Hands are shaken, faith is plighted, sounds our captain’s cheery call; In a borrowed boat we speed us fast and far, And the Toey-Wan and Tattnall down the ebb-tide slide and fall To the launches lying moaning by the bar. Eager for an English vengeance, battle light on every face, See, the Clustered Stars lead on the Triple Cross! Cheering, swinging into action, valiant Hope takes heart of grace From the cannons’ cloudy roar, the lanyards’ toss. How they fought, those fighting English! how they cheered the Toey-Wan, Cheered our sailors, cheered “Old” Tattnall, grim and gray! And their cheers ring down the ages as they rang beneath the sun O’er those bubbling, troubled waters far away. Ebbs and flows the muddy Pei-Ho by the Gulf of Pechi-Li, Idly floats beside the stream the dragon-flag; Past the batteries of China, looking westward still you see Lazy junks along the lazy river lag. Let the long, long years drop slowly on that lost and ancient land, Ever dear one scene to hearts of gallant men: There’s a hand-clasp and a heart-throb, there’s a word we understand— “Blood is thicker, sir, than water,” now as then. Wallace Rice.

We mustered at midnight, in darkness we formed, And the whisper went round of a fort to be stormed; But no drum-beat had called us, no trumpet we heard, And no voice of command but our colonel’s low word— “Column! Forward!” And out, through the mist and the murk of the morn, From the beaches of Hampton our barges were borne; And we heard not a sound save the sweep of the oar, Till the word of our colonel came up from the shore— “Column! Forward!” With hearts bounding bravely and eyes all alight, As ye dance to soft music, so trod we that night; Through the aisles of the greenwood, with vines overarched, Tossing dew-drops like gems from our feet, as we marched— “Column! Forward!” As ye dance with the damsels to viol and flute, So we skipped from the shadows and mocked their pursuit; But the soft zephyrs chased us, with scents of the morn, As we passed by the hayfields and green waving corn— “Column! Forward!” For the leaves were all laden with fragrance of June, And the flowers and the foliage with sweets were in tune; And the air was so calm, and the forest so dumb, That we heard our own heart-beats like taps of a drum— “Column! Forward!” Till the lull of the lowlands was stirred by a breeze, And the buskins of morn brushed the tops of the trees, And the glintings of glory that slid from her track By the sheen of our rifles were gayly flung back— “Column! Forward!” And the woodlands grew purple with sunshiny mist, And the blue-crested hill-tops with rose-light were kissed, And the earth gave her prayers to the sun in perfumes, Till we marched as through gardens, and trampled on blooms— “Column! Forward!” Aye, trampled on blossoms, and seared the sweet breath Of the greenwood with low-brooding vapors of death; O’er the flowers and the corn we were borne like a blast, And away to the forefront of battle we passed— “Column! Forward!” For the cannon’s hoarse thunder roared out from the glades, And the sun was like lightning on banners and blades, When the long line of chanting Zouaves, like a flood, From the green of the woodlands rolled, crimson as blood— “Column! Forward!” While the sound of their song, like the surge of the seas, With the Star Spangled Banner swelled over the leas; And the sword of Duryea, like a torch, led the way, Bearing down on the batteries of Bethel that day— “Column! Forward!” Through green-tasseled cornfields our columns were thrown, And like corn by the red scythe of fire we were mown; While the cannon’s fierce plowings new-furrowed the plain, That our blood might be planted for Liberty’s grain— “Column! Forward!” Oh, the fields of fair June have no lack of sweet flowers, But their rarest and best breathe no fragrance like ours! And the sunshine of June, sprinkling gold on the corn, Hath no harvest that ripeneth like Bethel’s red morn— “Column! Forward!” When our heroes, like bridegrooms, with lips and with breath Drank the first kiss of Danger and clasped her in death; And the heart of brave Winthrop grew mute as his lyre, When the plumes of his genius lay moulting in fire— “Column! Forward!” Where he fell shall be sunshine as bright as his name, And the grass where he slept shall be green as his fame; For the gold of the pen and the steel of the sword Write his deeds, in his blood, on the land he adored— “Column! Forward!” And the soul of our comrade shall sweeten the air, And the flowers and the grass-blades his memory up-bear; While the breath of his genius, like music in leaves, With the corn-tassels whispers, and sings in the sheaves— “Column! Forward!” Augustine Joseph Hickey Duganne.

Eighty and nine, with their captain, Rode on the enemy’s track. Rode in the gray of the morning— Nine of the ninety came back. Slow rose the mist from the river, Lighter each moment the way; Careless and tearless and fearless Galloped they on to the fray. Singing in tune, how the scabbards Loud on the stirrup-irons rang! Clinked as the men rose in saddle, Fell, as they sank, with a clang. What is it moves by the river, Jaded, and weary, and weak? Graybacks,—a cross on their banner,— Yonder the foe whom they seek. Silence! they see not, they hear not, Tarrying there by the marge; Forward! draw sabre! trot! gallop! Charge! like a hurricane—Charge! Ah, ’twas a man-trap infernal!— Fire like the deep pit of hell! Volley on volley to meet them, Mixed with the gray rebels’ yell. Ninety had ridden to battle, Tracing the enemy’s track,— Ninety had ridden to battle; Nine of the ninety came back. Honor the name of the ninety! Honor the heroes who came Scathless from five hundred muskets, Safe from the lead-bearing flame! Eighty and one of the troopers Lie on the field of the slain,— Lie on the red field of honor; Honor the nine who remain! Cold are the dead there, and gory, There where their life-blood was spilt; Back come the living, each sabre Red from the point to the hilt. Up with three cheers and a “tiger!” Let the flags wave as they come! Give them the blare of the trumpet! Give them the roll of the drum! Thomas Dunn English.

’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 center 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 center,— 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.

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster’s hide. “Strike your flag!” the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain. “Never!” our gallant Morris replies; “It is better to sink than to yield!” And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men. Then, like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon’s breath For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast head, Lord, how beautiful was Thy day! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead. Ho, brave hearts that went down in the seas! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; Ho, brave land, with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

’Mid dim and solemn forests, in the dawning chill and gray, Over dank, unrustling leaves, or through stiff and sodden clay, With never a fife or bugle, or mutter of rumbling drum, With shivering forms and solemn souls the Southern soldiers come; Their long lines vanishing in mist as onward they are sweeping, With step as silent as the dawn’s, to where the foe is sleeping. A challenge!—“Halt!”—The expected shot,—and then a dozen more, Like pebbles pattering down the steep the avalanche before; And then a rush, and then a yell, and then a blinding glare, And then a crash to lift the feet resounding everywhere! Now vanish chill and solemn thoughts, now burns the frenzied blood; The tottering tents toss to and fro upon the driving flood, And the campfires flash and darken fast beneath the masses’ tread— Now smoke behind in scattered brands ’mid wounded men and dead. And forward crowd the fugitives in panic-driven race; In vain in bush, ravine, and brake they hunt a hiding-place; For still that long line onward sweeps unbroken far and near, As War himself, with pinions bowed, were screaming in their rear. But far beyond the panic’s reach the foe is forming fast, And in our path stands rank on rank of long battalions massed. Now, Southern soldiers, nerve your hearts and gather up your strength, The time of trial waited for is come to you at length! A hundred pieces open, and their shrieking missiles pour, While full ten thousand muskets flash and mingle in the roar, Till the cannon’s boom is swallowed in the din of musketry, As the booming of the ocean when the thunders crash on high. But momently our laboring lines are charging o’er the field, And forcing back the stubborn ranks that only inches yield; For at every fence they rally and oppose our surging flood, Till their dead lie heaped before us wherever they have stood. A Southern regiment there is matched against a full brigade, And not a hundred yards apart in open field arrayed; A brook half way between them through a copse of willows glides, There’s not a rock, fence, log, or tree to shelter ours besides. But stubbornly, undauntedly, with ne’er a cheer or shout, With hands too busy for their lips they deal their volleys out. Again the battle gathers strength on yonder wooded hill, Behind whose awful batteries fresh ranks are forming still; A reeking veil of undergrowth divides the hostile lines, But lurid through its tangled web the vivid lightning shines! And so affrighting Death appears behind that dreadful pall, The stoutest spirit hesitates and flinches from his call. Now who will pierce that curtain dire and meet the battle’s brunt, Before their armies gather there and burst upon our front? Again the stern, portentous cry of “bayonets” is heard, But not again the serried line springs forward at the word; Behind the trees as skirmishers the cowering soldiers hide, And from afar the harmless trade of musket balls is plied. In vain, in vain their leaders shout, they cannot make them stir, But perish singly in the lead with scarce a follower! But hark, a sound of hoofs behind, a clang of sabres loud! I see a squad of mighty men go by me like a cloud! As the immortals rode to war when Hector fought for Troy, These ride, as if immortals, too, inspired with awful joy. Before them spurs their leader with a form that fills the air, So does his bearing fill their eyes, as if a god were there! Look how he goes to battle with a glory on his brow, As if prophetic Victory held laurels o’er it now! They are racing to the rescue: it is Johnston rides before; God grant they be in time to turn the battle’s tide once more! I hear their shoutings in the din; I hear the cries to “form,” I see a stiffening battle-line take shape within the swarm; And again the rank advances with an impetus of wrath, Their chieftain’s rage in every heart impels them on their path. A thousand rifles leveled low, but every rifle dumb, The beating of a thousand feet upon a monster drum, A surging of the war cloud as they disappear beneath, A sickening of the spirit and a gasping of the breath; Redoubled din—a lull—a cheer; I would the smoke would go! Oh, see our swooping battle flags! Oh, see the fleeing foe! Now glory to those gallant men! and Father, to Thy hand To-morrow shall our praises ring throughout our stricken land! But where is he who rallied them? I miss his charger there; I see him now ’midst yonder three whose saddles all are bare; And two men staggering with a load this side of them I see; Oh, who is it they carry in their arms so tenderly? They lay him gently on the leaves. Ah, well I know him now! I know that lordly figure and that grand imperial brow! ’Tis he; but oh, how prostrate is that form which filled the air! And his the pallid face; but look, the glory still is there! Oh, ye daughters of Kentucky, ere your pæans are begun, Your lips shall falter when they tell how Shiloh’s fight was won! Your hands shall weave the victor crown of laurels, but in vain; His marble brow shall never feel, nor pulse beat quick again. Oh, South, be sure a heart so pure had never loved so well! A country which had wronged him sore he pardoned ere he fell. Fleming James.

Would you hear of the river fight? It was two of a soft spring night; God’s stars looked down on all, And all was clear and bright But the low fog’s chilling breath;— Up the River of Death Sailed the great Admiral. On our high poop-deck he stood, And round him ranged the men Who have made their birthright good Of manhood once and again,— Lords of helm and of sail, Tried in tempest and gale. Who could fail with him? Who reckon of life or limb? Not a pulse but beat the higher! There had you seen, by the starlight dim Five hundred faces strong and grim; The Flag is going under fire! Right up by the fort With her helm hard aport, The Hartford is going under fire! First, as we answered their flash, ’Twas lightning and black eclipse, With a bellowing roll and crash. But soon upon either bow, What with forts and fire-rafts and ships, (The whole fleet was hard at it now, All pounding away!) and Porter Still thundering with shell and mortar,— ’Twas the mighty sound and form Of an equatorial storm. But, as we worked along higher, Just where the river enlarges, Down came a pyramid of fire,— It was one of your long coal barges. (We had oft had the like before!) ’Twas coming down to larboard, Well in with the eastern shore. And our pilot, to let it pass round, (You may guess we never stopped to sound,) Giving us a rank sheer to starboard, Ran the Flag hard and fast aground! ’Twas nigh abreast of the upper fort, And straightway a rascal ram (She was shaped like the devil’s dam!) Puffed away for us, with a snort, And shoved it, with spiteful strength, Right alongside of us, to port;— It was all of our ship’s length, A huge crackling cradle of the pit, Pitch-pine knots to the brim, Belching flame red and grim;— What a roar came up from it! In a twinkling the flames had risen Half way to the main-top and mizzen, Darting up the shrouds like snakes! Ah, how we clanked at the brakes! And the deep steam-pumps throbbed under, Sending a ceaseless flow;— Our top-men, a dauntless crowd, Swarmed in rigging and shroud;— There, (’twas a wonder!) The burning ratlins and strands They quenched with their bare hard hands; But the great guns below Never silenced their thunder! At last, by backing and sounding, When we were clear of grounding, And under headway once more, The whole rebel fleet came rounding The point;—if we had it hot before, ’Twas now, from shore to shore, One long, loud thundering roar,— Such crashing, splintering, and pounding, And smashing as you never heard before! For all above was battle, Broadside, and blaze, and rattle, Smoke and thunder alone!— (But, down in the sick-bay, Where our wounded and dying lay, There was scarce a sob or a moan.) And at last, when the dim day broke, And the sullen sun awoke, Drearily blinking O’er the haze and the cannon-smoke, That ever such morning dulls, There were thirteen hulls On fire and sinking! And on the dolorous strand, To greet the victor-brave, One flag did welcome wave, Raised, ah, me! by a wretched hand, All outworn on our cruel land, The withered hand of a slave! ’Tis well to do and dare,— But ever may grateful prayer Follow, as aye it ought, When the good fight is fought, When the true deed is done! Aloft in heaven’s pure light, (Deep azure crossed on white) Our fair church-pennant waves O’er a thousand thankful braves, Bareheaded in God’s bright sun. Henry Howard Brownell.

So that soldierly legend is still on its journey,— That story of Kearny who knew not to yield! ’Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney, Against twenty thousand he rallied the field. Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest, Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine, Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,— No charge like Phil Kearny’s along the whole line. When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn, Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground, He rode down the length of the withering column, And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound; He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the powder,— His sword waved us on and we answered the sign: Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder, “There’s the devil’s own fun, boys, along the whole line!” How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten In the one hand still left,—and the reins in his teeth! He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten, But his soldier’s glance shot from his visor beneath. Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, Asking where to go in,—through the clearing or pine? “Oh, anywhere! Forward! ’Tis all the same, Colonel: You’ll find lovely fighting along the whole line!” Oh, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried! Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily, The flower of our knighthood, the whole army’s pride! Yet we dream that he still,—in that shadowy region Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer’s sign,— Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, And the word still is “Forward!” along the whole line. Edmund Clarence Stedman.

Sweet Malvern Hill is wreathed in flame, From serried ranks the steel is gleaming; Our legions march to death and fame, Their battle flags right wildly streaming. Each hero bares his manly breast, And gallant hearts are fiercely beating; With steady tramp they line the crest O’er which an iron hail is sleeting. Up loom the bastions grim and large Through battle smoke that’s lowering near them; The little drummers roll the charge, And dying comrades raise to cheer them. Twice forty guns with deadly aim Strike down our lines in tones of thunder; Yet still they press, with eyes aflame, Till Valor’s self looks on in wonder. But now the human tide rolls back, A ghastly remnant grim and gory; And countless heroes mark the track Which led them up to heights of glory. But one still presses on amain Where double-shotted guns are frowning, Above, amidst the iron rain, He nobly wins a hero’s crowning. Through all the battle smoke he’d seen The saintly forms of angels bearing The laurel crowns forever green To wreathe the foreheads of the daring. And eager for his priceless crown,— The bastions scarce a length before him,— His stalwart form at length went down With Death and Honor bending o’er him. Brave soldier of the Southern clime, No stately song nor brilliant story Shall hand thy name to future time As one who gained immortal glory. But Freedom, with her mailèd hand, Has paused to brush a tear of sorrow, And placed thee with that chosen band Who freely pour their lifeblood for her. And Valor, with her royal brow, And Honor, with her stately bearing, Have surely felt a prouder glow When musing on thy peerless daring. O gallant soldier, all unknown, Though noisy Fame, we know, shall never Proclaim thy deeds through every zone, A hero’s crown is thine forever! William Gordon McCabe.

Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep, Fair as a garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain wall,— Over the mountains, winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town. Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapped in the morning wind; the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down; In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, “Stonewall” Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced: the old flag met his sight. “Halt!”—the dust-brown ranks stood fast; “Fire!”—out blazed the rifle-blast. It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will. “Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country’s flag,” she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came; The nobler nature within him stirred To life at the woman’s deed and word: “Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog! March on!” he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet; All day long that free flag tossed Over the heads of the rebel host. Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well; And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it a warm good-night. Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er, And the rebel rides on his raids no more. Honor to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on “Stonewall’s” bier. Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave, Flag of freedom and union, wave! Peace, and order, and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town! John Greenleaf Whittier.

Did you hear of the fight at Corinth, How we whipped out Price and Van Dorn? . . . . . . . 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. 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. Ah, well—you know how it ended— We did for them, there and then, But their pluck throughout was splendid, They stood to the last like men. Red as blood, o’er the town, The angry sun went down, Firing flag-staff and vane; And our eagle,—as for him, There, all ruffled and grim, He sat, o’erlooking the slain! ’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.

Loaded with gallant soldiers, A boat shot in to the land, And lay at the right of Rodman’s Point, With her keel upon the sand. Lightly, gaily they came to shore, And never a man afraid; When suddenly the enemy opened fire From his deadly ambuscade. Each man fell flat on the bottom Of the boat; and the captain said, “If we lie here we all are captured, And the first who moves is dead!” Then out spoke a negro sailor,— No slavish soul had he,— “Somebody’s got to die, boys, And it might as well be me!” Firmly he rose, and fearlessly Stepped out into the tide; He pushed the vessel safely off, Then fell across her side;— Fell, pierced by a dozen bullets, As the boat swung clear and free; But there wasn’t a man of them that day Was fitter to die than he! Phœbe Cary.

Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe April day The Northmen’s mailed “Invincibles” steamed up fair Charleston Bay; They came in sullen file, and slow, low-breasted on the wave, Black as a midnight front of storm, and silent as the grave. A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as these dread monsters drew More closely to the game of death across the breezeless blue; And twice ten thousand hearts of those who watch the scene afar Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle’s broadening star. Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect stands, The ready linstocks firmly grasped in bold, untrembling hands; So moveless in their marble calm, their stern, heroic guise, They look like forms of statued stone with burning human eyes! Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately rustling fold, Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight’s ruddy gold;— They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widely echoing cheers, And then, once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait the grim cannoneers. Onward, in sullen file, and slow, low-glooming on the wave, Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the grave, When, shivering the portentous calm o’er startled flood and shore, Broke from the sacred Island Fort the thunder wrath of yore! The storm has burst! and, while we speak, more furious, wilder, higher, Dart from the circling batteries a hundred tongues of fire; The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of heaven seems rent above— Fight on, O knightly gentlemen, for faith, and home, and love! There’s not, in all that line of flame, one soul that would not rise, To seize the victor’s wreath of blood, though Death must give the prize; There’s not, in all this anxious crowd that throngs the ancient town, A maid who does not yearn for power to strike one foeman down! The conflict deepens! Ship by ship the proud Armada sweeps Where fierce from Sumter’s raging breast the volleyed lightning leaps; And ship by ship, raked, overborne, ere burned the sunset light, Crawls in the gloom of baffled hate beyond the field of fight! Paul Hamilton Hayne.