How the Flag Became Old Glory Part 8

OLD GLORY AT SHILOH

SPRING on the Tennessee; April--and flowers Bloom on its banks; the anemones white In cl.u.s.ters of stars where the green holly towers O'er bellworts, like b.u.t.terflies hov'ring in flight.

The ground ivy tips its blue lips to the laurel, And covers the banks of the water-swept bars With a background of blue, in which the red sorrel Are stripes where the pale corydalis are stars.

_Red, white and blue! O spring, did you send it,_ _And Flowers, did'st dream it for brothers to rend it?_

Spring on the Tennessee; Sabbath--and morning Breaks with a bird note that pulses along; A melody sobs in the heart of its dawning-- The pain that foreshadows the birth of a song.

Art thou a flecking, brave Bluebird, of sky light, Or the sough of a minor wove into a beam?

Oh, Hermit Thrush, Hermit Thrush, thou of the eye bright, Bird, or the spirit of song in a dream?

_"Our country--our country!" Why, birds, do you sing it?_ _And, woodland, why held you the echo, to ring it?_

Spring on the Tennessee; hark, Bluebird, listen!

Was that a bugle note far up the bend, Where the murk waters flush and the white bars glisten, Or dove cooing dove into love notes that blend?

And Wood Thrush, sweet, tell me,--that throbbing and humming, Is it march at the double quick or wild bees that hum?

And that rumble that shakes like an earthquake coming-- Tell me, O Hermit Thrush, thunder or drum?

_O birds, you must fly from the home that G.o.d gave you!_ _O flowers, you must die 'neath the foot that would save you!_

Out from the wood with the morning mist o'er it A gray line sweeps like a scythe of fire, And it burns the stubble of blue before it,-- (How their bugles ring and their cannon roar it!)

_In Dixie land we'll take our stand,_ _And live and die in Dixie!_

Out from the deep wood clearer and nigher, The gray lines roll, and the blue lines reel Back on the river--their dead are piled higher Than the muzzle of muskets thund'ring their peal:

_In Dixie land we'll take our stand,_ _And live and die for Dixie!_

Noon on the Tennessee; backward, still driven The blue lines reel, and the ranks of the gray Flash out with a fierceness that light up the heavens, When the thunders of night meet the lightnings of day.

Noon and past noon--and this is the story Of the flag that fell not, and they call it Old Glory:

It flapped in the air, it flashed with the blare Of the bugles so shrill and so true, It faced quick about and steadied the rout And halted the lines of blue.

And the _boom-boom-boom_ of the maddened guns Roared round it thick and fast, And _dead-dead-dead_ sang the learing lead Like hail in the sheeted blast, And up and around it, surge and swell, Rose the victor waves of the rebel yell, And Grant's grim army staggered, but stood, With backs to the river and dyed it with blood In the shuttle of thunder and drum; And they cheered as it went to the front of the fray And turned the tide at the sunset of day, And they whispered: _Buell is come!_

Spring on the Tennessee; April--and flowers Bloom on its banks; the anemones white In cl.u.s.ters of stars where the green holly towers O'er bellworts, like b.u.t.terflies hov'ring in flight.

And the ground ivy tips its blue lips to the laurel And covers the banks and the water-swept bars With a background of blue, in which the red sorrel Are stripes where the pale corydalis are stars.

Red, white, and blue--it tells its own story-- But, Spring, Who made it and named it Old Glory!

JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.

THE FLAG OF THE c.u.mBERLAND

THE Confederate frigate, _Merrimac_, newly arisen from her briny bath in the Norfolk Navy Yards, with her sides new coated in an almost impenetrable mail of iron and rechristened the _Virginia_, steamed slowly down the river May 8th, 1862, to Newport News, where the _c.u.mberland_, the _Congress_, and the _Minnesota_ of the Union fleet lay at anchor.

The crews of the latter vessels were taking life leisurely that day, and were indulging in various pastimes beloved of seamen. The _Merrimac_ as she hove in sight did not look especially belligerent. Indeed she appeared "like a house submerged to the eaves and borne onward by the flood."

Notwithstanding her somewhat droll appearance, the _Merrimac_ had herself well in control and was not on a cruise of pleasure bent, as the navies well knew.

With steady determination she came on, until within easy distance of the _Congress_, a vessel which gave her greeting with a shot from one of her stern guns, and received in response a shower of grape.

Broadsides were then exchanged, resulting in fearful slaughter to the crew of the _Congress_ and damage to the guns. An officer of the _Congress_ was a favorite brother of Captain Buchanan of the _Merrimac_.

But such relation effected naught in the exigencies of war.

Before the _Congress_ could recover herself, the _Merrimac_ headed for the _c.u.mberland_. The fires of the c.u.mberland, as she approached, had no effect upon her armored sides.

Into the _c.u.mberland_ she ran her powerful iron prow, crashing in her timbers and strewing her decks with the maimed, the dead, and dying.

Again she turned her attention to the _Congress_, remembering also the frigate _Minnesota_ with her fiery baptisms. Upon the _Congress_ she soon forced a surrender. The _Minnesota_ found refuge in flight.

Her work upon the _c.u.mberland_ was complete. And albeit the vessel had been rammed and was sinking, her men ascended to the spar deck and fought till the waters engulfed them. The last shot was fired from a gun half submerged in the water.

As the ship settled to the bottom she careened slightly and then righted herself; and the flag, as if defying the fate that threatened its destruction, still flew above the masthead.

[Ill.u.s.tration: AND THE FLAG, AS IF DEFYING THE FATE THAT THREATENED ITS DESTRUCTION, STILL FLEW ABOVE THE MASTHEAD.]

There, close to the waves--her colors almost touching the water--the captain, who was absent from his ship, found his flag upon his return. A harbinger as it proved of the issue that was to be.

THE c.u.mBERLAND

AT anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the _c.u.mberland_, 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 sh.o.r.e.

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 _c.u.mberland_ all awrack, 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!