Poems of American Patriotism Part 15

JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG

BRET HARTE

[Sidenote: July 1, 2, 3, 1863]

Have you heard the story that gossips tell Of Burns of Gettysburg?--No? Ah, well, Brief is the glory that hero earns, Briefer the story of poor John Burns: He was the fellow who won renown,-- The only man who didn't back down When the rebels rode through his native town; But held his own in the fight next day, When all his townsfolk ran away.

That was in July, Sixty-three, The very day that General Lee, Flower of Southern chivalry, Baffled and beaten, backward reeled From a stubborn Meade and a barren field.

I might tell how but the day before John Burns stood at his cottage door, Looking down the village street, Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, He heard the low of his gathered kine, And felt their breath with incense sweet Or I might say, when the sunset burned The old farm gable, he thought it turned The milk that fell like a babbling flood Into the milk-pail red as blood!

Or how he fancied the hum of bees Were bullets buzzing among the trees.

But all such fanciful thoughts as these Were strange to a practical man like Burns, Who minded only his own concerns, Troubled no more by fancies fine Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine,-- Quite old-fas.h.i.+oned and matter-of-fact, Slow to argue, but quick to act.

That was the reason, as some folks say, He fought so well on that terrible day.

And it was terrible. On the right Raged for hours the heady fight, Thundered the battery's double ba.s.s,-- Difficult music for men to face; While on the left--where now the graves Undulate like the living waves That all that day unceasing swept Up to the pits the Rebels kept-- Round shot ploughed the upland glades, Sown with bullets, reaped with blades; Shattered fences here and there Tossed their splinters in the air; The very trees were stripped and bare; The barns that once held yellow grain Were heaped with harvests of the slain; The cattle bellowed on the plain, The turkeys screamed with might and main, And brooding barn-fowl left their rest With strange sh.e.l.ls bursting in each nest.

Just where the tide of battle turns, Erect and lonely stood old John Burns.

How do you think the man was dressed?

He wore an ancient long buff vest, Yellow as saffron,--but his best, And, b.u.t.toned over his manly breast, Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar, And large gilt b.u.t.tons,--size of a dollar,-- With tails that the country-folk called "swaller."

He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, White as the locks on which it sat.

Never had such a sight been seen For forty years on the village green, Since old John Burns was a country beau, And went to the "quiltings" long ago.

Close at his elbows all that day, Veterans of the Peninsula, Sunburnt and bearded, charged away; And striplings, downy of lip and chin,-- Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in,-- Glanced, as they pa.s.sed, at the hat he wore, Then at the rifle his right hand bore; And hailed him, from out their youthful lore, With sc.r.a.ps of a slangy _repertoire_: "How are you, White Hat? Put her through!"

"Your head's level!" and "Bully for you!"

Called him "Daddy,"--begged he'd disclose The name of the tailor who made his clothes, And what was the value he set on those; While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, Stood there picking the rebels off,-- With his long brown rifle and bell-crown hat, And the swallow-tails they were laughing at.

'Twas but a moment, for that respect Which clothes all courage their voices checked: And something the wildest could understand Spake in the old man's strong right hand, And his corded throat, and the lurking frown Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown; Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, In the antique vestments and long white hair, The Past of the Nation in battle there; And some of the soldiers since declare That the gleam of his old white hat afar, Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, That day was their oriflamme of war.

So raged the battle. You know the rest: How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed, Broke at the final charge, and ran.

At which John Burns--a practical man-- Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, And then went back to his bees and cows.

That is the story of old John Burns; This is the moral the reader learns: In fighting the battle, the question's whether You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather!

TWILIGHT ON SUMTER

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD

[Sidenote: Aug. 24, 1863]

_After the surrender of Major Anderson, the Confederates strengthened the fort; but, in the spring of 1863, the U. S. guns on Morris Island battered it into a shapeless ruin._

Still and dark along the sea Sumter lay; A light was overhead, As from burning cities shed, And the clouds were battle-red, Far away.

Not a solitary gun Left to tell the fort had won, Or lost the day!

Nothing but the tattered rag Of the drooping Rebel flag, And the sea-birds screaming round it in their play.

How it woke one April morn, Fame shall tell; As from Moultrie, close at hand, And the batteries on the land, Round its faint but fearless band Shot and sh.e.l.l Raining hid the doubtful light; But they fought the hopeless fight Long and well, (Theirs the glory, ours the shame!) Till the walls were wrapt in flame, Then their flag was proudly struck, and Sumter fell.

Now--oh, look at Sumter now, In the gloom!

Mark its scarred and shattered walls, (Hark! the ruined rampart falls!) There's a justice that appals In its doom; For this blasted spot of earth Where Rebellion had its birth Is its tomb!

And when Sumter sinks at last From the heavens, that shrink aghast, h.e.l.l shall rise in grim derision and make room!

THE BAY-FIGHT

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL

[Sidenote: August 5, 1864]

_The poet was acting ensign on the staff of Admiral Farragut, when he led his squadron past Forts Morgan and Gaines, and into a victorious fight with the Confederate fleet in the Bay of Mobile.

The poem is here somewhat shortened._

Three days through sapphire seas we sailed, The steady Trade blew strong and free, The Northern Light his banners paled, The Ocean Stream our channels wet, We rounded low Canaveral's lee, And pa.s.sed the isles of emerald set In blue Bahama's turquoise sea.

By reef and shoal obscurely mapped, And hauntings of the gray sea-wolf, The palmy Western Key lay lapped In the warm was.h.i.+ng of the Gulf.

But weary to the hearts of all The burning glare, the barren reach Of Santa Rosa's withered beach, And Pensacola's ruined wall.

And weary was the long patrol, The thousand miles of shapeless strand, From Brazos to San Blas that roll Their drifting dunes of desert sand.

Yet, coast-wise as we cruised or lay, The land-breeze still at nightfall bore, By beach and fortress-guarded bay, Sweet odors from the enemy's sh.o.r.e,

Fresh from the forest solitudes, Unchallenged of his sentry lines-- The bursting of his cypress buds, And the warm fragrance of his pines.

Ah, never braver bark and crew, Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare.

Had left a wake on ocean blue Since Lion-Heart sailed _Trenc-le-mer_!

But little gain by that dark ground Was ours, save, sometime, freer breath For friend or brother strangely found, 'Scaped from the drear domain of death.

And little venture for the bold, Or laurel for our valiant Chief, Save some blockaded British thief, Full fraught with murder in his hold,

Caught unawares at ebb or flood-- Or dull bombardment, day by day, With fort and earth-work, far away, Low couched in sullen leagues of mud.

A weary time,--but to the strong The day at last, as ever, came; And the volcano, laid so long, Leaped forth in thunder and in flame!

"Man your starboard battery!"

Kimberly shouted-- The s.h.i.+p, with her hearts of oak, Was going, mid roar and smoke, On to victory!

None of us doubted-- No, not our dying-- Farragut's flag was flying!

Gaines growled low on our left, Morgan roared on our right-- Before us, gloomy and fell, With breath like the fume of h.e.l.l, Lay the Dragon of iron sh.e.l.l, Driven at last to the fight!

Ha, old s.h.i.+p! do they thrill, The brave two hundred scars You got in the River-Wars?

That were leeched with clamorous skill, (Surgery savage and hard), Splinted with bolt and beam, Probed in scarfing and seam, Rudely linted and tarred With oak.u.m and boiling pitch, And sutured with splice and hitch At the Brooklyn Navy-Yard!