Civil War Short Stories and Poems

John S. Mosby was one of the Confederate guerillas who repeatedly vexed the Union with his raids; this one occurred in March 1863.

Down Loudon Lanes, with swinging reins

And clash of spur and sabre,

And bugling of the battle horn,

Six score and eight we rode at morn,

Six score and eight of Southern born,

All tried in love and labor.

Full in the sun at Hamilton,

We met the South’s invaders;

Who, over fifteen hundred strong,

‘Mid blazing homes had marched along

All night, with Northern shout and song

To crush the rebel raiders.

Down Loudon Lanes, with streaming manes,

We spurred in wild March weather;

And all along our war-scarred way

The graves of Southern heroes lay,

Our guide-posts to revenge that day,

As we rode grim together.

Old tales still tell some miracle

Of saints in holy writing—

But who shall say while hundreds fled

Before the few that Mosby led.

Unless the noblest of our dead

Charged with us then when fighting?

While Yankee cheers still stunned our ears,

Of troops at Harper’s Ferry,

While Sheridan led on his Huns,

And Richmond rocked to roaring guns,

We felt the South still had some sons

She would not scorn to bury.

“A few moments before his death, Stonewall Jackson called out in his delirium: ‘Order A. P. Hill to prepare for action. Pass the infantry rapidly to the front. Tell Major Hawks …‘ Here the sentence was left unfinished. But, soon after, a sweet smile overspread his face, and he murmured quietly, with an air of relief: ‘Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees’ These were his last words; and, without any expression of pain, or sign of struggle, his spirit passed away,” writes the editor and Confederate veteran Henry M. Wharton.

Come, let us cross the river, and rest beneath the trees,

And list the merry leaflets at sport with every breeze;

Our rest is won by fighting, and Peace awaits us there.

Strange that a cause so blighting produces fruit so fair!

Come, let us cross the river, those that have gone before,

Crushed in the strife for freedom, await on yonder shore;

So bright the sunshine sparkles, so merry hums the breeze,

Come, let us cross the river, and rest beneath the trees.

Come, let us cross the river, the stream that runs so dark;

’Tis none but cowards quiver, so let us all embark.

Come, men with hearts undaunted, we’ll stem the tide with ease,

We’ll cross the flowing river, and rest beneath the trees.

Come, let us cross the river, the dying hero cried,

And God, of life the giver, then bore him o’er the tide.

Life’s wars for him are over, the warrior takes his ease,

There, by the flowing river, at rest beneath the trees.

It was in the bleak mountain country of East Tennessee; the evening was growing late, and the camp-fire was smouldering lower and lower, but we still sat round it, for the spell of the scout’s marvellous gift of story-telling we were none of us willing to dissolve. Captain Charlie Leighton had been a lieutenant in a Michigan Battery at the commencement of the war, but a natural love of excitement and restlessness of soul had early prompted him to seek employment as a scout, in which he soon rose to unusual eminence. He is a man of much refinement, well educated, and of a “quick inventive brain.” The tale I am about to relate is my best recollection of it as it fell from his lips, and if there is aught of elegance in its diction, as here presented, it is all his own. He had been delighting us with incidents of the war, most of which were derived from his own experience, when I expressed a desire to know something of his first attempt at scouting. He willingly assented, took a long pull at my brandy flask, and commenced his yarn; and I thought that I had never seen a handsomer man than Charlie Leighton the scout, as he carelessly lounged there, with the ruddy gleams of the dying camp-fire occasionally flickering over his strongly marked intelligent face, and his curling black hair waving fitfully in the night wind, which now came down from the mountain fresher and chillier.

It happened in Western Virginia, said he. I had been personally acquainted with our commander, General R., before the war commenced, and having intimated, a short time previous to the date of my story, that I desired to try my luck in the scouting service—of which a vast deal was required to counteract the guerrillas with which the Blue Ridge fairly teemed at that time—one night, late in the fall of the year, I was delighted to receive orders to report at his head-quarters. The general was a man of few words, and my instructions were brief.

“Listen,” said he. “My only reliable scout (Mackworth) was killed last night at the lower ford; and General F. (the rebel commander) has his head-quarters at the Sedley Mansion on the Romney road.”

“To go there! Why, it’s in the heart of the enemy’s position!” was my amazed ejaculation.

“Just the reason I want it done,” resumed the general. “Listen: I attack tomorrow at daybreak. F. knows it, or half suspects it, and will mass either on the center or the left wing. I must know which. The task is thick with danger—regular life and death. Two miles from here, midway to the enemy’s outposts, and six paces beyond the second mile-stone, are two rockets propped on the inside of a hollow stump. Mackworth placed them there yesterday. You are to slip to F.’s quarters tonight, learn what I want, and hurry back to the hollow stump. If he masses on the center, let off one rocket; if on the left, let off both. This duty, I repeat, abounds with danger. You must start immediately, and alone. Will you go?”

Everything considered, I think I voted in the affirmative pretty readily, but it required a slight struggle. Nevertheless, consent I did, and immediately left the tent to make ready.

It was near ten o’clock when, having received a few additional words of advice from the chief, I set forth on my perilous ride. The country was quite familiar to me, so I had little fear of losing my way, which was no inconsiderable advantage, I can tell you. Riding slowly at first, as soon as I had passed our last outpost, I put spurs to my horse (a glorious gray thoroughbred which the general had lent me for the occasion) and fed down the mountain at a breakneck pace. It was a cool, misty, uncertain night—almost frosty, and the country was wild and desolate. Mountains and ravines were the ruling features, with now and then that diversification of the broomy, irregular plateau, with which our mountain scenery is occasionally softened. I continued my rapid pace with but little caution until I arrived at the further extremity of one of these plateaux. Here I brought up sharply beside a block of granite, which I recognized as the second milestone. Dismounting, I proceeded to the hollow stump which the general had intimated, and finding the rockets there, examined them well to make sure of their efficiency—remounted, and was away again. But now I exercised much more caution in my movements. I rode more slowly, kept my horse on the turf at the edge of the road, in order to deaden the hoof-beats, and also shortened the chain of my sabre, binding the scabbard with my knee to prevent its jingling. Still I was not satisfied, but tore my handkerchief in two, and made fast to either heel the rowel of my spurs, which otherwise had a little tinkle of their own. Then I kept wide awake, with my eyes everywhere at once, in the hope of catching a glimpse of some clew or landmark—the glimmer of a camp-fire—a tent-top in the moonlight, which now began to shine faintly—or to hear the snort of a steed, the signal of a picket—anything to guide me or to give warning of the lurking foe. But no: if there had been any campfires they were dead; if there had been any tents they were struck. Not a sign—not a sound. Everything was quiet as the tomb.

The great mountains rose around me in their mantles of pine and hoods of mist, cheerless and repelling, as if their solitude had never been broken. The moon was driving through a weird and ragged sky, with something desolate and solemn in her haggard face that seemed like an omen of fill. And in spite of my efforts to be cheerful, I felt the iron loneliness and sense of danger creep through my flesh and touch the bones.

None but those who have actually experienced it can properly conceive of the apprehensions which throng the breast of him, howsoever brave, who knows himself to be alone in the midst of enemies who are invisible. The lion hunter of Abyssinia is encompassed with peril when he makes a pillow of his gun in the desert; and our own pioneer slumbers but lightly in his new cabin when he knows that the savage, whose monomania is vengeance, is prowling the forest that skirts his clearing. But the lion is not always hungry; and even the Indian may be conciliated. The hunter confronts his terrible antagonist with something deadlier than ferocity. The hand that levels and the eye that directs the rifled tube are nerved and fired by “the mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark,” which, in this case, is indeed a “tower of strength.” And the settler, with promises and alcohol, may have won the savage to himself. But to the solitary scout, at midnight, every turn of the road may conceal a finger on a hair trigger; every stump or bush may hold a foe in waiting. If he rides through a forest, it is only in the deepest shadow that he dares ride upright; and should he cross an open glade, where the starlight or moonshine drops freely, he crouches low on the saddle and hurries across, for every second he feels he may be a target. His senses are painfully alive, his faculties strained to their utmost tension.

By way of a little episode, I knew a very successful scout, who met his death, however, on the Peninsula, who would always require a long sleep immediately after an expedition of peril, if it had lasted but a few hours, and had apparently called forth no more muscular exertion than was necessary to sit the saddle. But, strange as it may seem, he would complain of overpowering fatigue, and immediately drop into the most profound slumber. And I have been informed that this is very frequently the case. I can only attribute it to the fact that, owing to the extreme and almost abnormal vivacity—I think of no better word—of the faculties and senses, a man on these momentous occasions lives twice or thrice as fast as ordinarily; and the usual nerve-play and wakefulness of a day and night may thus be concentrated in the brief period of a few hours.

But to resume: I felt to the full this apprehension, this anxiety, this exhaustion, but the knowledge of my position and the issues at stake kept my blood flowing. I had come to the termination of the last plateau or plain, when the road led me down the side of a ravine, with a prospect ahead of nothing but darkness. Here, too, I was compelled to make more noise, as there was no sod for my horse to tread on, and the road was flinty and rough in the extreme. But I kept on as cautiously as possible, when suddenly, just at the bottom of the ravine, where the road began to ascend the opposite declivity, I came to a dead halt, confronted by a group of several horsemen, so suddenly that they seemed to have sprung from the earth like phantoms.

“Why do you return so slowly?” said one of them, impatiently. “What have you seen? Did you meet Colonel Craig?”

For a moment—a brief one—I gave myself up for lost; but, with the rapid reflection and keen invention which a desperate strait will sometimes superinduce, I grasped the language of the speaker, and formed my plan accordingly.

“What have you seen?” I had been sent as a spy, then. “Did you meet Colonel Craig?”

Oho! I thought, I will be Colonel Craig. No, I won’t; I will be Colonel Craig’s orderly. So I spoke out boldly:

“Colonel Craig met your messenger, who had seen nothing, and advised him to scout down the edge of the creek for half a mile. But he dispatched me, his orderly, to say that the enemy appear to be retreating in heavy masses. I am also to convey this intelligence to General F.”

The troopers had started at the tones of a strange voice, but seemed to listen with interest and without suspicion.

“Did the colonel think the movement a real retreat, or only a feint?” asked the leader.

“He was uncertain,” I replied, beginning to feel secure and roguish at the same time; “but he bade me to say that he would ascertain; and in an hour or two, if you should see one rocket up to the north there, you might conclude that the Yankees were retreating; if you should see two, then you might guess that they were not retreating, but stationary, with likelihood of remaining inert for another day.”

“Good!” cried the rebel. “Do you know the way to the general’s quarters?”

“I think I can find it,” said I; “although I am not familiar with this side of the mountain.”

“It’s a mile this side of the Sedley Mansion,” said the trooper. “You will find some pickets at the head of the road. You must there leave your horse, and climb the steep, when you will see a farmhouse, and fifteen minutes’ walk toward it will bring you to the general’s tent. I will go with you to the top of the road.” And setting off at a gallop, the speaker left me to follow, which I hesitated not to do. Now, owing to their mistake, the countersign had not been thought of; but the next picket would not be likely to swallow the same dose of silence, and it was a lucky thing that the trooper led the way, for he would reach them first, and I would have a chance to catch the password from his lips. But he passed the picket so quickly, and dropped the precious syllables so indistinctly, that I only caught the first of them—”Tally’— while the remainder might as well have been Greek. Tally, tally, tally what? Good God! thought I, what can it be? Tally, tally—here I am almost up to the pickets—what can it be? Tallyho? No, that’s English. Talleyrand? No, that’s French. God help me! Tally, tally—

“Tallahassee!” I yelled with the inspiration of despair, as I dashed through the picket, and their levelled carbines sank toothless before that wonderful spell—the Countersign.

Blessing my stars, and without further mishap, I reached the place indicated by the trooper, which was high up on the side of the mountain—so high that clouds were forming in the deep valley below. Making my bridle fast, I clambered with some difficulty the still ascending slope on my left. Extraordinary caution was required. I almost crept towards the farmhouse, and soon perceived the tent of the rebel chief. A solitary guard was pacing between it and me—probably a hundred yards from the tent. Perceiving that boldness was my only plan, I sauntered up to him with as free-and-easy an air as I could muster.

I advanced as near as was safe, and whispered “Tallahassee,” with some fears as to the result.

“It’s a d—d lie!” said the sentry, bringing his piece to the shoulder in the twinkle of an eye. “That answers the pickets, but not me.” Click, click, went the rising hammer of the musket.

I am a dead man, thought I to myself; I am a dead man unless the cap fails. Wonderful, marvelous to relate, the cap did fail. The hammer dropped with a dull, harmless thug on the nipple. With the rapidity of thought and the stealth of a panther I glided forward and clutched his windpipe, forcing him to his knees, while the gun slipped to the ground. There was a fierce but silent struggle. The fellow could not speak, for my hand on his throat; but he was a powerful man, with a bowie-knife in his belt, if he could only get at it. But I got it first, hesitated a moment, and then drove it in his midriff to the hilt; and just at that instant his grinders closed on my arm and bit to the bone. Restraining a cry with the utmost difficulty, I got in another blow, this time home, and the jaws of the rebel flew apart with a start, for my blade had pressed the spring of the casket. Breathless from the struggle, I lay still to collect my thoughts, and listened to know if the inmates of the tent had been disturbed. But no; a light was shining through the canvas, and I could hear the low murmur of voices from within, which I had before noticed, and which seemed to be those of a number of men in earnest consultation. I looked at the corpse of the rebel remorsefully. The slouched hat had fallen off in the scuffle, and the pale face of the dead man was upturned to the scant moonlight. It was a young, noble, and exceedingly handsome face, and I noticed that the hands and feet were small and beautifully shaped; while everything about the body denoted it to have been the mansion of a gallant, gentle soul.

Was it a fair fight? did I attack him justly? thought I; and in the sudden contrition of my heart, I almost knelt to the ground. But the sense of my great peril recurred to me, stifling everything else, however worthy. I took off the dead man’s overcoat and put it on, threw my cap away and replaced it with the fallen sombrero, and then dragged the corpse behind an outhouse of the farm that stood close by. Returning, I picked up the gun, and began to saunter up and down in a very commendable way indeed; but a sharp observer might have noticed a furtiveness and anxiety in the frequent glances I threw at the tent, which would not have augured well for my safety. I drew nearer and nearer to the tent at every turn, until I could almost distinguish the voices within; and presently after taking a most minute survey of the premises, I crept up to the tent, crouched down to the bottom of the trench, and listened with all my might. I could also see under the canvas. There were half a dozen rebel chieftains within, and a map was spread on a table in the center of the apartment. At length the consultation was at an end, and the company rose to depart. I ran back to my place, and resumed the watchful saunter of the guard with as indifferent an air as possible, drawing the hat well over my eyes.

The generals came outside of the tent and looked about a little before they disappeared. Two of them came close to me and passed almost within a yard of the sentry’s body. But they passed on, and I drew a deep breath of relief. A light still glimmered through the tent, but presently that, too, vanished, and all was still. But occasionally I would hear the voice of a fellow sentry, or perhaps the rattle of a halter in some distant manger.

I looked at my watch. It was two o’clock—would be five before I could fire the signal, and the attack was to be at daybreak.

Cautiously as before, I started on my return, reaching my horse without accident. Here I abandoned the gun and overcoat, remounted and started down the mountain. “Tallahassee” let me through the first picket again, but something was wrong when I cantered down the ravine to the troopers to whom I had been so confidentially dispatched by Colonel Craig. Probably the genuine messenger, or perhaps the gallant Colonel himself, had paid them a visit during my absence. At any rate, I saw that something unpleasant was up, but resolved to make the best of it.

“Tallahassee! Tallahassee!” I yelled. And committing my soul to God, I plunged down the gulley with sabre and revolver in either hand.

Click—bang! something grazed my cheek like a hot iron. Click— bang again! something whistled by my ear with an ugly intonation. And then I was in their midst, shooting, stabbing, slashing, and swearing like a fiend. The rim of my hat flapped over my face from a sabre cut, and I felt blood trickling down my neck. But I burst away from them, up the banks of the ravine, and along the bare plateau, all the time yelling “Tallahassee! Tallahassee!” without knowing why. I could hear the alarm spread back over the mountain by halloos and drums, and presently the clatter of pursuing steeds. But I fled onward like a whirlwind, almost fainting from excitement and loss of blood, until I reeled of at the hollow stump.

Fiz, fiz! one, two! and my heart leaped with exultation as the rushing rockets followed each other in quick succession to the zenith, and burst on the gloom in glittering showers. Emptying the remaining tubes of my pistol at the nearest pursuer, now but fifty yards off, I was in the saddle and away again without waiting to see the result of my aim. It was a ride for life for a few moments; but I pressed as noble a steed as ever spurned the footstool, and as we neared the Union lines the pursuit dropped off. When I attained the summit of the first ridge of our position, and saw the day break faintly and rosily beyond the pine-tops and along the crags, the air fluttered violently in my face, the solid earth quivered beneath my feet, as a hundred cannon opened simultaneously above, below, and around me. Serried columns of men were swinging irresistibly down the mountain toward the opposite slope; flying field-pieces were dashing off into position; long lines of cavalry were haunting the gullies, or hovering like vultures on the steep; and the blare of bugles rose above the roar of the artillery with a wild, victorious peal. The two rockets had been answered, and the veterans of the Union were bearing down upon the enemy’s weakened center like an avalanche of fire.

“So that is all,” said the scout, rising and yawning. “The battle had begun in earnest. And maybe I didn’t dine with General R. when it was over and the victory gained. Let’s go to bed.”

Confederate General Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia began its second “invasion” of the North, into Pennsylvania, in the beginning of June (the invasion would end on July 4, when Lee’s troops began retreating to Virginia after the Battle of Gettysburg).

What means this invasion of Lee?

This Northern invasion by Lee?

Can anyone tell the extent of his lines?

And why he cuts up such impertinent shines?

And where it is going? Has any one guessed?

On a frolic up North, or a raid in the West,

This great rebel army of Lee?

Some say that this army of Lee,

This half famished army of Lee,

Has invaded the North to secure the relief

Of old Pennsylvania’s bread, butter, and beef,

And horses and blankets, and shirts, boots and shoes

And that her choice whisky they will not refuse,

These tatterdemalions of Lee.

Some guess that this army of Lee,

This penniless army of Lee,

Is destined to play us some ruinous pranks,

To surprise Philadelphia, and clean out her banks

And Uncle Sam’s mint, and their treasures untold

In “greenbacks” and nickel, and silver and gold,

This vagabond army of Lee.

And others will have it that Lee,

Or a part of this army of Lee

Is moving North-West, and to Pittsburgh is bound,

To sack it, and blow up, or burn to the ground

Its factories of great guns, and gunboats—that all

Its warlike establishments surely must fall

To the wrath of this army of Lee.

And others are certain that Lee,

And the savage battalions of Lee,

Are moving for Baltimore, there, in the name

Of pious Jeff Davis, to kindle the flame

Of a roaring rebellion—that this is the game,

The grand calculation and object and aim,

Of these terrible Tartars of Lee.

Some think that these movements of Lee,

And these raids from the army of Lee,

Are only deceptions, the tricks and the show

Of a Northern invasion, to cheat “Fighting Joe,”

And then to push on, without pausing to rest.

To a junction with Bragg to recover the West,

By these bold Carthaginians of Lee.

Some think that abandoning Lee,

The Cotton State Legions of Lee,

Care little for Richmond—that Davis & Co.

Have packed up their traps and are ready to go

To some safer refuge down South—that, in fine,

In Georgia they next will establish their shrine,

And leave old Virginia to Lee.

But it is our impression that Lee,

And this wonderful army of Lee,

Are moving with Washington still in their eyes.

Looming up as the grand and desirable prize

Which will gain the alliance of England and France,

And bring in John Bull to assist in the dance,

Hand in hand with the army of Lee.

’Tis the last chance remaining to Lee,

And the last to this army of Lee,

And the last to Jeff Davis; for, sure as they fail

In this desperate game, nothing else will avail

To keep their frail craft and its masters adrift,

Or to rescue from ruin, disastrous and swift,

This grand rebel army of Lee.

All these Border State movements of Lee

Are but the diversions of Lee

To divide our main army which holds him at bay,

To divide it, and crush it, and open the way

To “Old Abe’s” headquarters; for, these once possessed,

King Jeff will retrieve his misfortunes out West,

As he thinks, by this triumph of Lee.

But this Northern invasion of Lee,

With the loss of this army of Lee,

To Richmond so strongly invites us that way.

That we are expecting the tidings some day

That Dix has gone in, and that Davis has saddled

His steed, and has over the river skedaddled

To hunt up the army of Lee.

And we think in these movements of Lee,

With this hide-and-seek army of Lee,

The occasion has come when his game may be foiled,

And we hope that his schemes will be thoroughly spoiled

By our war-chiefs at Washington waiting the day

To bring our whole army en masse into play

On the broken battalions of Lee.

The days of June were nearly done;

The fields, with plenty overrun,

Were ripening ‘neath the harvest sun,

In fruitful Pennsylvania!

Sang buds and children—“All is well!”

When, sudden, over hill and dell,

The gloom of coming battle fell

On peaceful Pennsylvania!

Through Maryland’s historic land,

With boastful tongue and spoiling hand.

They burst—a fierce and famished band—

Right into Pennsylvania!

In Cumberland’s romantic vale

Was heard the plundered farmer’s wail;

And every mother’s cheek was pale.

In blooming Pennsylvania!

With taunt and jeer, and shout and song.

Through rustic towns, they passed along—

A confident and braggart throng—

Through frightened Pennsylvania!

The tidings startled hill and glen;

Up sprang our hardy Northern men,

And there was speedy travel then

All into Pennsylvania!

The foe laughed out in open scorn;

For Union men were coward-born,

And then—they wanted all the corn

That grew in Pennsylvania!

It was the languid hour of noon,

When all the birds were out of tune,

And Nature in a sultry swoon,

In pleasant Pennsylvania!

When—sudden o’er the slumbering plain,

Red flashed the battle’s fiery rain—

The volleying cannon shook again

The hills of Pennsylvania!

Beneath that curse of iron hail,

That threshed the plain with flashing flail,

Well might the stoutest soldier quail,

In echoing Pennsylvania!

Then, like a sudden, summer rain,

Storm-driven o’er the darkened plain,

They burst upon our ranks and main,

In startled Pennsylvania!

“We felt the old, ancestral thrill,

From sire to son, transmitted still;

And fought for Freedom with a will,

In pleasant Pennsylvania!

The breathless shock—the maddened toil—

The sudden clinch—the sharp recoil—

And we were masters of the soil,

In bloody Pennsylvania!

To westward fell the beaten foe—

The growl of battle hoarse and low

Was heard anon, but dying slow,

In ransomed Pennsylvania!

Sou’ westward, with the sinking sun,

The cloud of battle, dense and dun,

Flashed into fire—and all was won

In joyful Pennsylvania.

But ah! the heaps of loyal slain!

The bloody toil! the bitter pain!

For those who shall not stand again

In pleasant Pennsylvania!

Back through the verdant valley lands,

East fed the foe, in frightened bands;

With broken swords and empty hands,

Out of Pennsylvania!

The author was serving in Union General U. S. Grant’s Company A, One Hundredth Regiment P. V, First Division Ninth Army Corps, besieging Vicksburg, the Southern stronghold on the Mississippi. The poem was composed or published June 21, 1863; Vicksburg was taken on July 4.

The author, who composed the celebratory poem on July 7, 1863, after Vicksburg’s fall before Union forces, was a captain in the First Wisconsin Cavalry.

Hail, Father of Waters! again thou art free!

And miscreant treason hath vainly enchained thee;

Roll on, mighty river, and bear to the sea

The praises of those who so gallantly gained thee!

From fountain to ocean, from source to the sea,

The west is exulting: “Our River is free.”

Fit emblem of Freedom! thy home is the North!

And thou wert not forgot by the mother that bore thee;

From snows everlasting thou chainless burst forth,

And chainless we solemnly swore to restore thee!

O’er river and prairie, o’er mountain and lea,

The North is exulting: “Our River is free!”

’Twas midnight—in secret the traitor conclave

Had sworn: “We will throw off; the bonds that unite us:

Our king shall be cotton, our watchword be slave!”

What ghostly intruder hath come to a„ right us!

“I’m the god of the river, from source to the sea,

I bear proudly onward the flag of the free!”

“Accursed is your treason—no power can break

The bond with which God hath united the nation,

And, thrice perjured ingrates, well may ye quake

At the certain approach of your dark condemnation!

So long as my waters flow south to the sea

Shall the flag of the Union float over the free!”

Glad River, thy bosom doth gratefully swell

Toward the heroes who bravely have fought to regain thee,

And proudly thou bearest them onward where dwell

Their comrades, who, crescent crowned, fight to retain thee!

But hark! what echo comes over the sea?

’Tis the Nation exulting: “Our River is free!”

The Union Army’s Parrott Rifle sent 150-pound bombs into Charleston, South Carolina, on August 12, 1863.

“The large Parrott used in bombarding Charleston from
the marshes of James Island is called the Swamp Angel.”

—A Soldier’s Letter

Down in the land of rebel Dixie,

Near to the hot-bed of treason,

Five miles away from Charleston,

Amid the sands of James Island,

Swept by the tides of the ocean,

Is the Swamp Angel.

Can parrot,

With plumage as black as a raven,

And scream unlike her tropical sisters’—

A hundred-pounder, with terrible voice!—

Be called bird or angel?

She’s for Freedom,

And Uncle Sam! synonymous terms;

An angel of vengeance and not of mercy,

Come to execute wrath upon the city

Whence sprang secession.

At night this angel raiseth her voice,

And her cry is “woe,” and not “rejoice.”

She sendeth far her meteor shell,

And it soareth up as if to dwell

With the twinkling stars in the fadeless blue;

There poiseth itself for the mighty blow,

Then downward shoots like a bolt from God:

Crushes the dwelling and crimsons the sod!

Fire leaps out from its iron heart,

Rives the defences of treason apart,

Till ruin spreads her sulphur pall

O’er shattered tower and crumbling wall;

And fearful crowds from the city fly,

Seeing the day of her doom is nigh!

O ye who herd with traitors!—say,

Is this the dawn of that promised day

Your poets sung and your prophets told?

Is this age of iron your age of gold?

For tins did ye rouse the Southern hate,

To rend the Union strong and great?

And build on the low Palmetto’s shore

An empire proud for evermore—

And shut in the face of the North your door?

Hear ye in the Angel the Northern call,

Thundered on Sumter’s broken wall,

Echoed in Charleston’s silent street,

Shouted in Treason’s proud retreat:

“Freemen must share with you the land!

Choose olive leaf—or blazing brand;

Choose peaceful Commerce’s flag of stars,

Or riff ed guns and monitors!

“By you were words of treason spoken,

By you the nation’s peace was broken;

The first gun fired whose startling jar

Sent through the land the shock of war!

Hear truth by Gospel trumpet blown—

Shall ye not reap as ye have sown?

Thistles for thistles, tares for tares,

The whirlwind’s breath—a rain of snares!

“The avenging Angel rides the blast—

You fired the first gun—we’ll fire the last!”

The editor Frank Moore writes that the poem pretends to be in the voice of the Confederate raider John Morgan “on surveying his solitary abode in his cell in the Ohio Penitentiary at Columbus.” General Morgan and his men raided Ohio in the summer of 1863 before Morgan was captured in late July and imprisoned. He escaped in November.

I am monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute;

Naked walls, a stone floor, a tin tray.

Iron spoon, checkered pants and clean suit.

I am out of Jeff Davis’s reach,

I must finish my journey in stone,

Never hear a big secession speech—

I start at the sound of my own.

O solitude! strange are the fancies

Of those who see charms in thy face;

Better dwell in the midst of the Yankees,

Than reign in this horrible place.

Ye steeds that have made me your sport,

Convey to this desolate cell

Some cordial, endearing report

Of the thefts I have practiced so well.

Horse-stealing, bridge-burning, and fight,

Divinely bestowed upon man;

Oh! had I the wings of a kite,

How soon would I taste you again!

My sorrows I then might assuage

In the work of destruction and raiding;

Might laugh at the wisdom of age,

Nor feel the least pang of upbraiding.

Rebellion! what music untold

Resides in that heavenly word!

It helps me to silver and gold,

And all that the earth can afford.

But the sweet sound of burning and plunder

These prison-walls never yet heard,

Never echoed the chivalry’s thunder,

Nor mocked at the Union’s grand bird.

How fleet is a glance of the mind

Compared with the speed of my fight;

But Shackelford came up behind,

So I found ’twas no use to fight.

The Buckeyes that gave me a race,

My form with indifference see;

They are so light of foot on the chase,

Their coolness is shocking to me.

When I think of my dear native land,

I confess that I wish I was there;

Confound these hard stone walls at hand,

And my bald pate, all shaven of hair.

My friends, do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me?

Like Burbeck, that quick-coming friend?

For a friend in need truly was he.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her rest,

The beast is laid down in his lair;

Yet not like John Morgan unblest,

As I to my straw bed repair.

Wallis was a lawyer from Baltimore. “It may add something to the interest with which these stirring lines will be read,” writes the editor Frank Moore, “to know that they were composed within the walls of a Yankee Bastille. They reach us in manuscript, through the courtesy of a returned prisoner.”

Awake and to horse, my brothers!

For the dawn is glimmering gray,

And hark! in the crackling brushwood

There are feet that tread this way.

“Who cometh?” “A friend.” “What tidings?”

“O God! I sicken to tell;

For the earth seems earth no longer,

And its sights are sights of hell!

“From the far-of conquered cities

Comes a voice of stifled wail,

And the shrieks and moans of the houseless

Ring out, like a dirge on the gale.

“I’ve seen from the smoking village

Our mothers and daughters fly;

I’ve seen where the little children

Sank down in the furrows to die.

“On the banks of the battle-stained river

I stood as the moonlight shone,

And it glared on the face of my brother,

As the sad wave swept him on.

“Where my home was glad, are ashes,

And horrors and shame had been there,

For I found on the fallen lintel

This tress of my wife’s torn hair!

“They are turning the slaves upon us,

And with more than the fiend’s worst art,

Have uncovered the fire of the savage,

That slept in his untaught heart!

“The ties to our hearths that bound him,

They have rent with curses away,

And maddened him, with their madness,

To be almost as brutal as they.

“With halter, and torch, and Bible,

And hymns to the sound of the drum,

They preach the gospel of murder,

And pray for lust’s kingdom to come.

“To saddle! to saddle! my brothers!

Look up to the rising sun,

And ask of the God who shines there,

Whether deeds like these shall be done!

“Wherever the vandal cometh,

Press home to his heart with your steel,

And when at his bosom you can not,

Like the serpent, go strike at his heel.

“Through thicket and wood, go hunt him,

Creep up to his camp-fire side,

And let ten of his corpses blacken

Where one of our brothers hath died.

“In his fainting, foot-sore marches,

In his flight from the stricken fray,

In the snare of the lonely ambush,

The debts we owe him, pay.

“In God’s hand alone is vengeance,

But he strikes with the hands of men,

And his blight would wither our manhood,

If we smite not the smiter again.

“By the graves where our fathers slumber,

By the shrines where our mothers prayed,

By our homes, and hopes, and freedom,

Let every man swear on his blade,

“That he will not sheathe nor stay it,

Till from point to hilt it glow

With the flush of Almighty vengeance,

In the blood of the felon foe.”

They swore—and the answering sunlight

Leaped red from their lifted swords,

And the hate in their hearts made echo

To the wrath in their burning words.

There’s weeping in all New England,

And by Schuylkill’s banks a knell,

And the widows there and the orphans,

How the oath was kept, can tell.

Up from the meadows rich with corn,

Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand

Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,

Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as the garden of the Lord

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall

When Lee marched over the mountain wall,—

Over the mountains winding down,

Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,

Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun

Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,

Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town,

She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic window the staff she set,

To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,

Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right

He glanced: the old fag met his sight.

“Halt!”—the dust-brown ranks stood fast.

“Fire!”—out blazed the rife-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash;

It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff

Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

She leaned far out on the window sill,

And shook it forth with a royal will.

“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,

But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,

Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred

To life at that woman’s deed and word:

“Who touches a hair of yon gray head

Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.

All day long through Frederick street

Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tost

Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell

On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light

Shone over it with a warm goodnight.

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!

According to its editor, Frank Moore, this song was written by a private in Company A, Fifty-Fourth (colored) Regiment, Massachusetts Volunteers.

(Air— “Hoist up the Flag”)

Fremont told them when the war it first begun,

How to save the Union, and the way it should be done;

But Kentucky swore so hard, and old Abe he had his fears,

Till every hope was lost but the colored volunteers;

Chorus—O, give us a flag, all free without a slave;

We’ll fight to defend it as our fathers did so brave;

The gallant Comp’ny “A” will make the Rebels dance,

And we’ll stand by the Union if we only have a chance.

McClellan went to Richmond with two hundred thousand brave;

He said “keep back the niggers,” and the Union he would save.

Little Mac he had his way, still the Union is in tears,

Now they call for the help of the colored volunteers.

Chorus—O, give us a flag, all free without a slave; &c.

Old Jeff, says he’ll hang us if we dare to meet him armed,—

A very big thing, but we are not at all alarmed,—

For he first has got to catch us, before the way is clear,

And “that is what’s the matter” with the colored volunteer.

Chorus—O, give us a flag, all free without a slave; &c.

So rally, boys, rally, let us never mind the past.

We had a hard road to travel, but our day is coming fast;

For God is for the Right, and we have no need to fear;

The Union must be saved by the colored volunteer.

Chorus—O, give us a flag, all free without a slave; &c.

“On the night of October 28, 1863, when [Union] General Geary’s division of the Twelfth Corps repulsed the attacking forces of Longstreet at Wautuchie, Tenn., a number of mules, affrighted by the noise of battle, dashed into the ranks of Hampton’s Legion, causing much dismay among the rebels, and compelling many of them to fall back under a supposed charge of cavalry. Captain Thomas H. Elliott, of General Geary’s staff, gives the following rendition of the incident, which he gleaned from an interior contemporary. Its authorship is not known,” writes the editor Frank Moore.

Half a mile, half a mile,

Half a mile onward,

Right toward the Georgia troops,

Broke the two hundred.

“Forward the Mule Brigade,”

“Charge for the Rebs!” they neighed;

Straight for the Georgia troops

Broke the two hundred.

II.

“Forward, the Mule Brigade!”

Was there a mule dismayed?

Not when the long ears felt

All their ropes sundered;

Theirs not to make reply;

Theirs not to reason why;

Theirs but to make them fly.

On! to the Georgia troops,

Broke the two hundred.

III.

Mules to the right of them,

Mules to the left of them,

Mules behind them,

Pawed, neighed, and thundered

Breaking their own confines,

Breaking through Longstreet’s lines,

Into the Georgia troops

Stormed the two hundred.

Wild all their eyes did glare,

Whisked all their tails in air,

Scatt’ring the chivalry there,

While all the world wondered.

Not a mule back bestraddled,

Yet how they all skeddadled;

Fled every Georgian,

Unsabred, unsaddled,

Scattered and sundered,

How they were routed there

By the two hundred.

Mules to the right of them,

Mules to the lea of them,

Mules behind them

Pawed, neighed, and thundered;

Followed by hoof and head,

Full many a hero fled,

Fain in the last ditch dead,

Back from an “ass’s jaw,”

All that was left of them,

Left by the two hundred.

VI.

When can their glory fade?

O! the wild charge they made!

All the world wondered.

Honor the charge they made,

Honor the Mule Brigade,

Long-eared two hundred.

Bennett was a London poet who mocked the British historian Thomas Carlyle for equating slavery and work.

O Thomas of Chelsea! I’ve dreamed such a dream!

I’ve been reading that dialogue, more smart than grave,

In which you’ve so settled the case, as you deem,

Of North against South, and of Whip versus Slave.

Excuse me—I wandered—I nodded—I dozed,

And straight to your Eden of fetters I flew,

And scenes I saw stranger than you’d have supposed;

Bless your stars, brother Thomas, those scenes were not true!

Yes, ’twas South-Carolina—’twas Charleston, no doubt—

But changed—why has quite from my memory slipped—

For the whites now were “hired,” as it straightway turned out,

“For life,” by the blacks, to be labored and whipped.

I’ve never been given, like you, to regard

Men treated as beasts as a comical sight;

In the case, as it had been, of blacks, it seemed hard,

And as hard it seemed now that the niggers were white.

But a negro, your namesake, was luckily by,

And this sablest of sages, oh! how he did grin,

As I uttered my doublings. “They men like us! why

The chattels! had they any black in their skin?

Were they not white all over? What, had I no eyes?

They fitted for freedom!—why, where was their wool?”

He couldn’t help sneering out lofty surprise

That my brain could of such silly nonsense be full.

“To be worked, to be walloped for nothing,” he said,

“The eternities sent forth all whites—’twas their doom.”

Just then an old graybeard was livelily led

To the block—for an auction went on in the room;

And think how I stared! why, the chattel, alack!

Yes, ’twas you—no mistake!—you put up there to sell!

You grumbled—whack! down came the thong on your back;

Good lord! how you, Thomas, did wriggle and yell!

My black sage looked on with a sneering disdain,

Stepped up to the block and examined your mouth;

Poked your ribs with his stick; you objected in vain—

“Whites were made to be served so by blacks in the South.”

A lively discussion around you arose,

On the strength of your legs—on your age; thump on thump.

Tried to straighten you upright; one would tweak your nose;

One hustled you down, just to see how you’d jump.

’Twas fun to their blackships, but Thomas, I’ve fears

Your temper that moment was none of the best;

There was rage in your scowl; in your old eyes were tears;

For it seems Mrs. Carlyle had just been sold West;

And what might, too, put some hard words in your mouth—

Though it did not affect your black namesake the least—

Master Carlyle was “hired for life,” right down South—

Miss Carlyle had been ditto right away East.

So you didn’t jump lively, and laugh as you ought.

Though, cursed in a whisper, you tried to look gay,

But at last for a rice-swamp you, Thomas, were bought,

Or “hired for life,” as your sageship would say;

Rather “hired for death”—so I dared to suggest;

But then, that’s all right, as the world must have rice,

If lives of old whites raise the whitest and best,

Why, we must have our crop, and we must pay the price.

You were handcuffed, and off to twelve hours a day

In a sweltering swamp, with a smart overseer,

Sure, if you do any thing—speak, think, or pray,

But as master allows, for that crime to pay dear:

A beast—every right of a man set at naught—

Every power chained down—every feeling defied—

To exist for the labor for which you were bought,

Till the memory of manhood has out of you died.

And as you went off, looking rueful enough,

I couldn’t help thinking, my sage, in my dream,

You perhaps might be taught in a school rather rough,

On “hirings for life” to have views less extreme,

That when you’ve tried slavery’s hell for awhile,

The misery of millions won’t seem a good joke,

A grin from the dullness of fools to beguile—

And thinking this, Thomas, thank heaven! I awoke.

Thompson (1823–1873) was an editor from Virginia who during the war promoted in London the Southern cause.

Two armies covered hill and plain,

Where Rappahannock’s waters

Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain

Of battle’s recent slaughters.

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents

In meads of heavenly azure;

And each dread gun of the elements

Slept in its hid embrasure.

The breeze so softly blew, it made

No forest leaf to quiver;

And the smoke of the random cannonade

Rolled slowly from the river.

And now, where circling hills looked down

With cannon grimly planted,

O’er listless camp and silent town

The golden sunset slanted.

When on the fervid air there came

A strain—now rich, now tender;

The music seemed itself aflame

With day’s departing splendor.

A Federal band, which, eve and morn,

Played measures brave and nimble,

Had just struck up, with flute and horn

And lively clash of cymbal.

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks,

Till, margined by its pebbles,

One wooded shore was blue with “Yanks,”

And one was gray with “Rebels.”

Then all was still, and then the band,

With movement light and tricksy,

Made stream and forest, hill and strand,

Reverberate with “Dixie.”

The conscious stream with burnished glow

Went proudly o’er its pebbles,

But thrilled throughout its deepest flow

With yelling of the Rebels.

Again a pause, and then again

The trumpets pealed sonorous,

And “Yankee Doodle” was the strain

To which the shore gave chorus.

The laughing ripple shoreward flew,

To kiss the shining pebbles;

Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue

Defiance to the Rebels.

And yet once more the bugles sang

Above the stormy riot;

No shout upon the evening rang—

There reigned a holy quiet.

The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood

Poured o’er the glistening pebbles;

All silent now the Yankees stood,

And silent stood the Rebels.

No unresponsive soul had heard

That plaintive note’s appealing,

So deeply “Home, Sweet Home” had stirred

The hidden founts of feeling.

Or Blue or Gray, the soldier sees,

As by the wand of fairy,

The cottage ‘neath the live-oak trees,

The cabin by the prairie.

Or cold or warm, his native skies

Bend in their beauty o’er him;

Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes,

His loved ones stand before him.

As fades the iris after rain,

In April’s tearful weather,

The vision vanished, as the strain

And daylight died together.

But memory, waked by music’s art

Exprest in simplest numbers,

Subdued the sternest Yankee’s heart,

Made light the Rebel’s slumbers.

And fair the form of Music shines,

That bright, celestial creature,

Who still, ‘mid War’s embattled lines,

Gave this one touch of Nature.

The author of this bitter satire, unmatched by anything even Mark Twain would later write, was from Baltimore.

Oh, God of battles! once again,

With banner, trump, and drum,

And garments in the wine-press dyed,

To give Thee thanks we come.

No goats or bullocks garlanded,

Unto Thine altars go;

With brothers’ blood, by brothers shed,

Our glad libations flow,

From pest-house and from dungeon foul,

Where, maimed and torn, they die,

From gory trench and charnel-house,

Where, heap on heap, they lie.

In every groan that yields a soul,

Each shriek a heart that rends,

With every breath of tainted air,

Our homage, Lord, ascends.

We thank Thee for the sabre’s gash,

The cannon’s havoc wild;

We bless Thee for the widow’s tears,

The want that starves her child!

We give Thee praise that Thou hast lit

The torch, and fanned the flame;

That lust and rapine hunt their prey,

Kind Father, in Thy name!

That, for the songs of idle joy

False angels sang of yore,

Thou sendest War on earth—ill-will

To men for evermore!

We know that wisdom, truth and right

To us and ours are given;

That Thou hast clothed us with the wrath,

To do the work of Heaven.

We know that plains and cities waste

Are pleasant in Thine eyes—

Thou lov’st a hearthstone desolate,

Thou lov’st a mourner’s cries.

Let not our weakness fall below

The measure of Thy will,

And while the press hath wine to bleed,

Oh, tread it with us still!

Teach us to hate—as Jesus taught

Fond fools, of yore, to love;

Give us Thy vengeance as our own—

Thy pity, hide above!

Teach us to turn, with reeking hands,

The pages of Thy Word,

And learn the blessed curses there,

On them that sheathe the sword.

Where’er we tread may deserts spring,

’Till none are left to slay;

And when the last red drop is shed,

We’ll kneel again—and pray!

Poems of grieving by mothers, wives, and families were a genre in themselves, published in the thousands. This and the following four poems, published from 1863 to 1866, are particularly touching.

You say that in every battle

No soldier was braver than he,

As, aloft in the roar and the rattle,

He carried the flag of the free:

I knew, ah! I knew he’d ne’er falter,

I could trust him, the dutiful boy.

My Robert was wilful—but Walter,

Dear Walter, was ever a joy.

And if he was true to his mother,

Do you think he his trust would betray,

And give up his place to another,

Or turn from the danger away?

He knew while afar he was straying,

He felt in the thick of the fight,

That at home his poor mother was praying

For him and the cause of the right!

Tell me, comrade, who saw him when dying,

What he said, what he did, if you can;

On the field in his agony lying,

Did he suffer and die like a man?

Do you think he once wished he had never

Borne arms for the right and the true?

Nay, he shouted Our Country forever!

When he died he was praying for you!

O my darling! my youngest and fairest,

Whom I gathered so close to my breast;

I called thee my dearest and rarest,

And thou wert my purest and best!

I tell you, O friend! as a mother,

Whose full heart is breaking today,

The Infinite Father—none other—

Can know what he’s taken away!

I thank you once more for your kindness,

For this lock of his auburn hair:

Perhaps ’tis the one I in blindness

Last touched, as we parted just there!

When he asked, through his tears, should he linger

From duty, I answered him, Nay:

And he smiled, as he placed on my finger

The ring I am wearing today.

I watched him leap into that meadow;

There, a child, he with others had played;

I saw him pass slowly the shadow

Of the trees where his father was laid;

And there, where the road meets two others,

Without turning he went on his way:

Once his face toward the foe—not his mother’s

Should unman him, or cause him delay.

It may be that some day your duty

Will carry you that way again;

When the field shall be riper in beauty,

Enriched by the blood of the slain;

Would you see if the grasses are growing

On the grave of my boy? Will you see

If a flower, e’en the smallest, is blowing,

And pluck it, and send it to me?

Don’t think, in my grief, I’m complaining;

I gave him, God took him, ’tis right;

And the cry of his mother remaining

Shall strengthen his comrades in fight.

Not for vengeance, today, in my weeping,

Goes my prayer to the Infinite Throne.

God pity the foe when he’s reaping

The harvest of what he has sown!

Tell his comrades these words of his mother:

All over the wide land today,

The Rachels who weep with each other,

Together in agony pray.

They know in their great tribulation,

By the blood of their children outpoured.

We shall smite down the foes of the Nation,

In the terrible day of the Lord.

Amid the throng that gathers where

The mail dispenses joy and care,

I saw a woeful woman stand,

A letter falling from her hand:

She spoke no word, she breathed no sigh;

Her bloodless cheek, her sad, fixed eye,

And pallid, quivering lips apart,

Showed hopeless grief had seized her heart.

I spoke—a word of kindness cheers

The heavy heart, and heaven-sent tears

Refresh the eye dry sorrow sears.

“Ah! sir, my boy! my brave, bright boy!”

In broken voice, she said;

“My only son! my only joy!

My brave, bright boy is dead!”

“Sorrow is sacred!” and the eye

That looks on grief is seldom dry:

I listened to her piteous moan,

Then followed to her dwelling lone,

Where sheltered from the biting cold,

She thus her simple story told:

“My gran’father, sir, for freedom died,

On Eutaw’s bloody plain;

My father left his youthful bride,

And fell at Lundy’s Lane.

“And when my boy, with burning brow,

Told of the nation’s shame—

How Sumter fell!—oh! how, sir, how

Could blood like mine be tame!

“I blessed him; and I bade him go—

Bade him our honor keep:

He proudly went to meet the foe;

Left me to pray and weep.

“In camp—on march—of picket round—

He did his equal share;

And still the call to battle found

My brave boy always there.

“And when the fleet was all prepared

To sail upon the main,

He all his comrades’ feelings shared—

But fever scorched his brain!

“He told the general: ‘He would ne’er

From toil or danger shrink,

But, though the waves he did not fear,

It chilled his heart to think

“How drear the flowerless grave must be,

Beneath the ocean’s foam,

And that he knew ’twould comfort me

To have him die at home.’

“They tell me that the general’s eye

With tears did over flow:

GOD BLESS THE BRAVE MAN!—with a sigh,

He gave him leave to go.

“Quick down the vessel’s side came he;

Joy seemed to kill his pain;

‘Comrades!’ he cried, ‘I yet shall see

My mother’s face again!’

“The boat came bounding o’er the tide;

He sprang upon the strand:

God’s will be done !—my bright boy died,

His furlough in his hand!”

Ye, who this artless story read,

If Pity in your bosoms plead,

And “Heaven has blessed your store”—

If broken-hearted woman, meek,

Can win your sympathy—go, seek

That childless widow’s door!

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass

He turned them into the river-lane;

One after another he let them pass,

Then fastened the meadow-bars again.

Under the willows, and over the hill,

He patiently followed their sober pace;

The merry whistle for once was still,

And something shadowed the sunny face.

Only a boy! and his father had said

He never could let his youngest go:

Two already were lying dead

Under the feet of the trampling foe.

But after the evening work was done,

And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp,

Over his shoulder he slung his gun

And stealthily followed the foot-path damp.

Across the clover, and through the wheat,

With resolute heart and purpose grim,

Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet

And the blind bat’s flitting startled him.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white,

And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom;

And now, when the cows came back at night,

The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm

That three were lying where two had lain;

And the old man’s tremulous, palsied arm

Could never lean on a son’s again.

The summer day grew cool and late.

He went for the cows when the work was done;

But down the lane, as he opened the gate,

He saw them coming one by one:

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,

Shaking their horns in the evening wind;

Cropping the buttercups out of the grass —

But who was it following close behind?

Loosely swung in the idle air

The empty sleeve of army blue;

And worn and pale, from the crisping hair

Looked out a face that the father knew.

For war’s grim prisons will sometimes yawn,

And yield their dead unto life again;

And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn

In golden glory at last may wane.

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes,

For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb;

And under the silent evening skies,

Together they followed the cattle home.

This poem was first published in The Atlantic Monthly in 1866; Longfellow said it was not based on an actual event.

He is dead, the beautiful youth,

The heart of honor, the tongue of truth,

He, the life and light of us all,

Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call,

Whom all eyes followed with one consent,

The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word,

Hashed all murmurs of discontent.

Only last night, as we rode along,

Down the dark of the mountain gap,

To visit the picket-guard at the ford,

Little dreaming of any mishap,

He was humming the words of some old song:

“Two red roses he had on his cap

And another he bore at the point of his sword.”

Sudden and swift a whistling ball

Came out of a wood, and the voice was still;

Something I heard in the darkness fall,

And for a moment my blood grew chill;

I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks

In a room where some one is lying dead;

But he made no answer to what I said.

We lifted him up to his saddle again,

And through the mire and the mist and the rain

Carried him back to the silent camp,

And laid him as if asleep on his bed;

And I saw by the light of the surgeon’s lamp

Two white roses upon his cheeks,

And one, just over his heart, blood-red!

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet

That fatal bullet went speeding forth,

Till it reached a town in the distant North,

Till it reached a house in a sunny street,

Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat

Without a murmur, without a cry;

And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town,

For one who had passed from cross to crown,

And the neighbors wondered that she should die.