Poems of American Patriotism Part 14

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 bank; Till margined by its pebbles, One wooded sh.o.r.e was blue with "Yanks,"

And one was gray with "Rebels."

Then all was still; and then the band With movements 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 trumpet pealed sonorous, And Yankee Doodle was the strain To which the sh.o.r.e gave chorus.

The laughing ripple sh.o.r.eward flew To kiss the shining pebbles-- Loud shrieked the crowding Boys in Blue Defiance to the Rebels.

And yet once more the bugle sang Above the stormy riot; No shout upon the evening rang There reigned a holy quiet.

The sad, lone stream its noiseless tread Spread o'er the glistening pebbles: All silent now the Yankees stood; All silent stood the Rebels:

For each responsive 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 cottage by the prairie.

Or cold or warm, his native skies Bend in their beauty o'er him: Sending the tear-mist in his eyes-- The dear 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 Expressed 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.

KEENAN'S CHARGE

GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP

[Sidenote: May 2, 1863]

_During the second day of the battle of Chancellorsville, General Pleasonton was trying to get twenty-two guns into a vital position as Stonewall Jackson made a sudden advance. Time had to be bought; so Pleasanton ordered Major Peter Keenan, commanding the Eighth Pennsylvania Cavalry (four hundred strong), to charge the advancing ten thousand of the enemy. An introduction to the poem, setting forth these facts, is omitted._

By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, Brave Keenan looked in Pleasonton's eyes For an instant--clear, and cool, and still; Then, with a smile, he said: "I will."

"Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank.

Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, Rose joyously, with a willing breath-- Rose like a greeting hail to death.

Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed; Shouted the officers, crimson-sash'd; Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, In their faded coats of the blue and yellow; And above in the air, with an instinct true, Like a bird of war their pennon flew.

With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds, And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, And strong brown faces bravely pale For fear their proud attempt shall fail, Three hundred Pennsylvanians close On twice ten thousand gallant foes.

Line after line the troopers came To the edge of the wood that was ring'd with flame; Rode in and sabred and shot--and fell; Nor came one back his wounds to tell.

And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall, While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung 'Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung.

Line after line; ay, whole platoons, Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons By the maddened horses were onward borne And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn; As Keenan fought with his men, side by side.

So they rode, till there were no more to ride.

But over them, lying there, shattered and mute, What deep echo rolls?--'Tis a death salute From the cannon in place; for, heroes, you braved Your fate not in vain: the army was saved!

Over them now--year following year-- Over their graves, the pine-cones fall, And the whip-poor-will chants his spectre-call; But they stir not again: they raise no cheer: They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease, Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace.

The rush of their charge is resounding still That saved the army at Chancellorsville.

THE BLACK REGIMENT

GEORGE H. BOKER

[Sidenote: May 27, 1863]

_"The colored troops fought n.o.bly" was a frequent phrase in war bulletins; never did they better deserve this praise than at Port Hudson._

Dark as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dread ma.s.s, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over a ruined land;-- So still and orderly, Arm to arm, knee to knee, Waiting the great event, Stands the black regiment.

Down the long dusky line Teeth gleam and eyeb.a.l.l.s shine; And the bright bayonet, Bristling and firmly set, Flashed with a purpose grand, Long ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum Told them their time had come, Told them what work was sent For the black regiment.

"Now," the flag-sergeant cried, "Though death and h.e.l.l betide, Let the whole nation see If we are fit to be Free in this land; or bound Down, like the whining hound,-- Bound with red stripes of pain In our old chains again!"

O, what a shout there went From the black regiment!

"Charge!" Trump and drum awoke, Onward the bondmen broke; Bayonet and sabre-stroke Vainly opposed their rush.

Through the wild battle's crush.

With but one thought aflush, Driving their lords like chaff, In the guns' mouths they laugh; Or at the slippery brands Leaping with open hands, Down they tear man and horse, Down in their awful course; Trampling with b.l.o.o.d.y heel Over the crashing steel, All their eyes forward bent, Rushed the black regiment.

"Freedom!" their battle-cry,-- "Freedom! or leave to die!"

Ah! and they meant the word, Not as with us 'tis heard, Not a mere party shout: They gave their spirits out; Trusted the end to G.o.d, And on the gory sod Rolled in triumphant blood.

Glad to strike one free blow, Whether for weal or woe; Glad to breathe one free breath, Though on the lips of death.

Praying--alas! in vain!-- That they might fall again, So they could once more see That burst to liberty!

This was what "freedom" lent To the black regiment.

Hundreds on hundreds fell; But they are resting well; Scourges and shackles strong Never shall do them wrong.

O, to the living few, Soldiers, be just and true!

Hail them as comrades tried; Fight with them side by side; Never, in field or tent, Scorn the black regiment.