Poems of American Patriotism Part 12

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess His love of right," sez he, "Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton: There's natur' in J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!"

The South says, "_Poor folks down!_" John, An, "_All men up!_" say we,-- White, yaller, black, an' brown, John: Now which is your idee?

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, John preaches wal," sez he; "But, sermon thru, an' come to _du_, Why, there's the old J. B.

A crowdin' you an' me!"

Shall it be love, or hate, John?

It's you thet's to decide; Ain't _your_ bonds held by Fate, John, Like all the world's beside?

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess Wise men forgive," sez he, "But not forget; an' some time yet Thet truth may strike J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!"

G.o.d means to make this land, John, Clear thru, from sea to sea, Believe an' understand, John, The _wuth_ o' bein' free.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, G.o.d's price is high," sez he; "But nothin' else than wut He sells Wears long, an' thet J. B.

May larn, like you an' me!"

THE c.u.mBERLAND

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

March 8, 1862 _The "c.u.mberland" was sunk by the iron-clad rebel ram "Merrimac,"

going down with her colors flying, and firing even as the water rose over the gunwale._

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 s.h.i.+p 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 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!

KEARNEY AT SEVEN PINES EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN

[Sidenote: May 31, 1862]

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 our 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 a 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?

"O, anywhere! Forward! 'Tis all the same, Colonel: You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line!"

O, 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.

DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER

GEORGE H. BOKER

[Sidenote: Sept. 1, 1862]

_These verses were written in memory of General Philip Kearny, killed at Chantilly after he had ridden out in advance of his men to reconnoitre._

Close his eyes; his work is done!

What to him is friend or foeman, Rise of moon, or set of sun, Hand of man, or kiss of woman?

Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he can not know: Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight, Proved his truth by his endeavor; Let him sleep in solemn night, Sleep forever and forever.

Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he can not know: Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars, Roll the drum and fire the volley!

What to him are all our wars, What but death bemocking folly?

Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he can not know: Lay him low!

Leave him to G.o.d's watching eye, Trust him to the hand that made him.

Mortal love weeps idly by: G.o.d alone has power to aid him, Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he can not know: Lay him low!