Have you guarded well the coast?
Have you marshalled all your host?
Standeth each man at his post?
Have you counted up the cost?
What is gained and what is lost,
When the foe your lines have crost?
Gained—the infamy of fame.
Gained—a dastard's spotted name.
Gained—eternity of shame.
Lost—desert of manly youth.
Lost—the right you had by birth.
Lost—lost!—freedom for the earth.
Freemen, up! The foe is nearing!
Haughty banners high uprearing—
Lo, their serried ranks appearing!
Freemen, on! The drums are beating!
Will you shrink from such a meeting?
Forward! Give them hero greeting!
From your hearths, and homes, and altars,
Backward hurl your proud assaulters.
He is not a man that falters.
Hush! The hour of fate is nigh,
On the help of God rely!
Forward! We will do or die.
G. Hamilton.
CCCXXX.
THE VOICE OF THE NORTH.
Up the hill-side, down the glen,
Rouse the sleeping citizen:
Summon out the might of men!
Like a lion growling low-Like
a night-storm rising slow-Like
the tread of unseen foe—
It is coming—it if nigh!
Stand your homes and altars by,
On your own free threshold die.
Clang the bells in all your spires,
On the gray hills of your sires
Fling to heaven your signal-fires.
Oh! for God and duty stand,
Heart to heart and hand to hand,
Round the old grates of the land.
Whoso shrinks or falters now,
Whoso to the yoke would bow,
Brand the craven on his brow.
Freedom's soil has only place
For a free and fearless race—
None for traitors false and base.
Perish party—perish clan;
Strike together while you can,
Like the strong arm of one man.
Like the angel's voice sublime,
Heard above a world of crime,
Crying for the end of Time.
With one heart and with one mouth,
Let the North speak to the South;
Speak the word befitting both.
J. G. Whittier.
CCCXXXI.
THE WATCHERS.
Beside a stricken field I stood;
On the torn turf, on grass and wood,
Hung heavily the dew of blood.
Still in their fresh mounds lay the slain,
But all the air was quick with pain
And gusty sighs and tearful rain.
Two angels, each with drooping head
And folded wings and noiseless tread,
Watched by that valley of the dead.
The one with forehead saintly bland
And lips of blessing, not command,
Leaned, weeping, on her olive wand.
The other's brows were scarred and knit,
His restless eyes were watch-fires lit,
His hands for battle-gauntlets fit.
"How long!" I knew the voice of Peace,—
"Is there no respite?—no release?—
When shall the hopeless quarrel cease?
"O Lord, how long!—One human soul
Is more than any parchment scroll,
Or any flag thy winds unroll.
"What price was Ellsworth's, young and brave?
How weigh the gift that Lyon gave,
Or count the cost of Winthrop's grave?
"O brother! if thine eye can see,
Tell me how and when the end shall be,
What hope remains for thee and me."
Then Freedom sternly said: "I shun
No strife nor pang beneath the sun,
When human rights are staked and won.
"I knelt with Ziska's hunted flock,
I watered in Toussaint's cell of rock,
I walked with Sidney to the block.
"The Moor of Marston felt my tread,
Through Jersey snows the march I led,
My voice Magenta's charges sped.
"But now through weary day and night,
I watch a vague and aimless fight
For leave to strike one blow aright.
"On either side my foe they own:
One guards through love his ghastly throne,
And one through fear to reverence grown.
"Why wait we longer, mocked, betrayed,
By open foes, or those afraid
To speed thy coming through my aid?
"Why watch to see who win or fall?—
I shake the dust against them all,
I leave them to their senseless brawl."
"Nay," Peace implored: "yet longer wait;
The doom is near, the stake is great;
God knoweth if it be too late.
"Still wait and watch; the way prepare
Where I with folded wings of prayer
May follow, weaponless and bare."
"Too late!" the stern, sad voice replied
"Too late!" its mournful echo sighed,—
In low lament the answer died.
A rustling as of wings in flight,
An upward gleam of lessening white,
So passed the vision, sound and sight.
But round me, like a silver bell
Rung down the listening sky to tell
Of holy help, a sweet voice fell.
"Still hope and trust," it sang; "the rod
Must fall, the wine-press must be trod,
But all is possible with God!"
J. G. Whittier.
CCCXXXII.
BARBARA FRIETCHIE.
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 a 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-walls—
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 her 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 flag met his sight.
"Halt!"—the dust-brown ranks stood fast;
"Fire!"—out blazed the rifle-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 your 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 tossed
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 good-night.
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!
J. G. Whittier.
CCCXXXIII.
PRO PATRIA.
INSCRIBED TO THE SECOND NEW HAMPSHIRE REGIMENT.
The grand old earth shakes at the tread of the Norsemen,
Who meet, as of old, in defence of the true;
All hail to the stars that are set in their banner!
All hail to the red, and the white, and the blue!
As each column wheels by,
Hear their hearts' battle-cry,—
It was Warren's,—'Tis sweet for our country to die!
Lancaster and Coös, Laconia and Concord,
Old Portsmouth and Keene, send their stalwart young men;
They come from the plough, and the loom, and the anvil,
From the marge of the sea, from the hill-top and glen.
As each column wheels by,
Hear their hearts' battle-cry,—
It was Warren's,—'Tis sweet for our country to die!
The prayers of fair women, like legions of angels,
Watch over our soldiers by day and by night;
And the King of all glory, the Chief of all armies,
Shall love them and lead them who dare to do right!
As each column wheels by,
Hear their hearts' battle-cry,—
'T was Warren's,—'Tis sweet for our country to die!
T. B. Aldrich.
CCXXXIV.
THE CALVARY CHARGE.
With bray of the trumpet
And roll of the drum,
And keen ring of bugle,
The cavalry come.
Sharp clank the steel scabbards,
The bridle-chains ring,
And foam from red nostrils
The wild chargers fling.
Tramp! tramp! o'er the greensward
That quivers below,
Scarce held by the curb-bit
The fierce horses go!
And the grim-visaged colonel,
With ear-rending shout,
Peals forth to the squadrons
The order—"Trot out!"
One hand on the sabre,
And one on the rein,
The troopers move forward
In line on the plain.
As rings the word "Gallop!"
The steel scabbards clank,
And each rowel is pressed
To a horse's hot flank:
And swift is their rush
As the wild torrent's flow,
When it pours from the crag
On the valley below.
"Charge!" thunders the leader:
Like shaft from the bow
Each mad horse is hurled
On the wavering foe.
A thousand bright sabres
Are gleaming in air;
A thousand dark horses
Are dashed on the square.
Resistless and reckless
Of aught may betide,
Like demons, not mortals,
The wild troopers ride.
Cut right! and cut left!—
For the parry who needs?
The bayonets shiver
Like wind-shattered reeds.
Vain—vain the red volley
That bursts from the square,—
The random-shot bullets
Are wasted in air.
Triumphant, remorseless,
Unerring as death,—
No sabre that's stainless
Returns to its sheath.
The wounds that are dealt
By that murderous steel
Will never yield case
For the surgeon to heal.
Hurrah! they are broken—
Hurrah! boys, they fly—
None linger save those
Who but linger to die.
Rein up your hot horses
And call in your men,—
The trumpet sounds "Rally
To color" again.
Some saddles are empty,
Some comrades are slain,
And some noble horses
Like stark on the plain,
But war's a chance game, boys,
And weeping is vain.
F. A. Durivage.
CCCXXXV.
THE CUMBERLAND.
At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay,
On board of the Cumberland 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 shore.
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 Cumberland 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 main mast-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!
H. W. Longfellow.
CCCXXXVI.
UNITED STATES NATIONAL ANTHEM.
God of the Free! upon Thy breath
Our Flag is for the Right unrolled,
As broad and brave as when its stars
First lit the hallowed time of old.
For Duty still its folds shall fly;
For Honor still its glories burn,
Where Truth, Religion, Valor, guard
The patriot's sword and martyr's urn.
No tyrant's impious step is ours;
No lust of power on nations rolled:
Our Flag—for friends, a starry sky;
For traitors, storm in every fold.
O thus we'll keep our Nation's life,
Nor fear the bolt by despots hurled;
The blood of all the world is here,
And they who strike us strike the world!
God of the Free! our Nation bless
In its strong manhood as its birth;
And make its life a Star of Hope
For all the struggling of the Earth.
Then shout beside thine Oak, O North!
O South! wave answer with thy Palm;
And in our Union's heritage
Together sing the Nation's Psalm!
W. R. Wallace.
CCCXXXVII.
THE FISHERMAN OF BEAUFORT.
The tide comes up, and the tide goes down,
And still the fisherman's boat,
At early dawn and at evening shade,
Is ever and ever afloat:
His net goes down, and his net comes up,
And we hear his song of glee:
"De fishes dey hates de ole slave nets,
But comes to de nets of de free."
The tide comes up, and the tide goes down,
And the oysterman below
Is picking away, in the slimy sands,
In the sands ob de long ago.
But now if an empty hand he bears,
He shudders no more with fear,
There's no stretching-board for the aching bones,
And no lash of the overseer.
The tide comes up, and the tide goes down,
And ever I hear a song,
As the moaning winds, through the moss-hung oaks,
Sweep surging ever along:
"O massa white man! help de slave,
And de wife and chillen too;
Eber dey'll work, wid de hard worn hand
Ef ell gib 'em de work to do."
The tide comes up, and the tide goes go down,
But it bides no tyrant's word,
As it chants unceasing the anthem grand,
Of its Freedom to the Lord.
The fisherman floating on its breast
Has caught up the key-note true:
"De sea works, mass, for 't sef and God,
And so must de brack man too."
"Den gib him de work, and gib him de pay,
For de chillen and wife him love;
And de yam shall grow, and de cotton shall blow,
And him nearer, nebber rove;
For him love de ole Carlina State,
And de ole magnolia-tree:
Oh! nebber him trouble de icy Norf,
Ef de brack folks am go free."
Mrs. F. D. Gage.
CCCXXXVIII.
THE FLOWER OF LIBERTY.
What flower is this that greets the morn,
Its hues from heaven so freshly born?
With burning star and flaming band
It kindles all the sunset land;—
O, tell us what its name may be!
Is this the Flower of Liberty?
It is the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!
In savage Nature's far abode
Its tender seed our fathers sowed;
The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud,
Its opening leaves were streaked with blood,
Till, lo! earth's tyrants shook to see
The full-blown Flower of Liberty!
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!
Behold its streaming rays unite
One mingling flood of braided light,—
The red that fires the Southern rose,
With spotless white from Northern snows,
And, spangled o'er its azure, see
The sister Stars of Liberty!
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!
The blades of heroes fence it round;
Where'er it springs is holy ground;
From tower and dome its glories spread;
It waves where lonely sentries tread;
It makes the land as ocean free,
And plants an empire on the sea!
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!
Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower,
Shall ever float on dome and tower,
To all their heavenly colors true,
In blackening frost or crimson dew,—
And God love us as we love thee,
Thrice holy Flower of Liberty!
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!
O. W. Holmes.
CCCXXXIX.
AN APPEAL.
Listen, young heroes! your country is calling!
Time strikes the hour for the brave and the true!
Now, while the foremost are fighting and falling,
Fill up the ranks that have opened for you!
You whom the fathers made free and defended,
Stain not the scroll that emblazons their fame!
Yon whose fair heritage spotless descended,
Leave not your children a birthright of shame!
Stay not for questions while Freedom stands gasping!
Wait not till Honor lies wrapped in his pall!
Brief the lips' meeting be, swift the hands' clasping,—
"Off for the Wars!" is enough for them all.
Break from the arms that would fondly caress you!
Hark! 't is the bugle-blast, sabres are drawn!
Mothers shall pray for you, fathers shall bless you,
Maidens shall weep for you when you are gone!
Never or now! cries the blood of a nation,
Poured on the turf where the red rose should bloom;
Now is the day and the hour of salvation,—
Never or now! peals the trumpet of doom!
Never or now! roars the hoarse-throated cannon
Through the black canopy blotting the skies;
Never or now! flaps the shell-blasted pennon
O'er the deep ooze where the Cumberland lies!
From the foul dens where our brothers are dying,
Aliens and foes in the land of their birth,—
From the rank swamps where our martyrs are lying
Pleading in vain for a handful of earth,—
From the hot plains where they perish outnumbered,
Furrowed and ridged by the battle-field's plough,
Comes the loud summons; too long you have slumbered,
Hear the last Angel-trump—Never or Now!
O. W. Holmes.
CCCXL.
THE LAST CHARGE.
Now men of the North! will you join in the strife
For country, for freedom, for honor, for life?
The giant grows blind in his fury and spite,—
One blow on his forehead will settle the fight!
Flash full in his eyes the blue lightning of steel,
And stun him with cannon-bolts peal upon peal!
Mount, troopers, and follow your game to its lair,
As the hound tracks the wolf and the beagle the hare!
Blow, trumpets, your summons, till sluggards awake!
Beat, drums, till the roofs of the fainthearted shake!
Yet, yet, ere the signet is stamped on the scroll,
Their names may be traced on the blood-sprinkled roll!
Trust not the false herald that painted your shield:
True honor to-day must be sought on the field!
Her scutcheon shows white with a blazon of red,—
The life-drops of crimson for liberty shed!
The hour is at hand, and the moment draws nigh!
The dog-star of treason grows dim in the sky!
Shine forth from the battle-cloud, light of the morn,
Call back the bright hour when the Nation was born!
The rivers of peace through our valleys shall run,
As the glaciers of tyranny melt in the sun;
Smite, smite the proud parricide down from his throne,—
His sceptre once broken, the world is our own!
O. W. Holmes.
CCCXLI.
VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP UNION.
'Tis midnight: through my troubled dream
Loud wails the tempest's cry;
Before the gale, with tattered sail,
A ship goes plunging by.
What name? Where bound? The rocks around
Repeat the loud halloo.
—The good ship Union, Southward bound:
God help her and her crew!
And is the old flag flying still
That o'er your fathers flew,
With bands of white and rosy light,
And field of starry blue?
—Ay! look aloft! its folds full oft
Have braved the roaring blast,
And still shall fly when from thy sky
This black typhoon has past!
Speak, pilot of the storm-tost bark!
May I thy peril share?
—O landsman, these are fearful seas
The brave alone may dare!
—Nay, ruler of the rebel deep,
What matters wind or wave?
The rocks that wreck your reeling deck
Will leave me nought to save!
O landsman, art thou false or true?
What sign hast thou to show?
—The crimson stains from loyal veins
That hold my heart-blood's flow!
—Enough! what more shall honor claim?
I know the sacred sign;
Above thy head our flag shall spread!
Our ocean path be thine!
The bark sails on; the Pilgrim's cape
Lies low along her lee,
Whose headland crooks its anchor-flukes
To lock the shore and sea.
No treason here! it cost too dear
To win this barren realm!
And true and free the hands must be
That hold the whaler's helm.
Still on! Manhattan's narrowing bay
No Rebel cruiser scars;
Her raters feel no pirate's keel
That flaunts the fallen stars!
But watch the light on yonder height,—
Ay, pilot, have a care!
Some lingering cloud in mist may shroud
The capes of Delaware!
Say, pilot, what this fort may be,
Whose sentinels look down
From moated wails that show the sea
Their deep embrasures' frown?
The Rebel host claims all the coast,
But these are friends, we know,
Whose footprints spoil the "sacred soil,"
And this is?—Fort Monroe!
The breakers roar,—how bears the shore?
—The traitorous wreckers' hands
Have quenched the blaze that poured its rays
Along the Hatteras sands.
—Ha! say not so! I see its glow!
Again the shoals display
The beacon light that shines by night,
The Union Stars by day!
The good ship flies to milder skies,
The wave more gently flows;
The softening breeze wafts o'er the seas
The breath of Beaufort's rose.
What fold is this the sweet winds kiss,
Fair-striped and many-starred,
Whose shadow palls these orphaned walls,
The twins of Beauregard?
What! heard you not Port Royal's doom?
How the black war-ships came
And turned the Beaufort roses' bloom
To redder wreaths of flame?
How from Rebellion's broken reed
We saw his emblem fall,
As soon his curséd poison-weed
Shall drop from Sumter's wall?
On! on! Pulaski's iron hail
Falls harmless on Tybee!
Her topsails feel the freshening gale,—
She strikes the open sea;
She rounds the point, she threads the Keys
That guard the Land of Flowers,
And rides at last where firm and fast
Her own Gibraltar towers!
The good ship Union's voyage is o'er,
At anchor safe she swings,
And loud and clear with cheer on cheer
Her joyous welcome rings:
Hurrah! Hurrah! it shakes the wave,
It thunders on the shore,—
One flag, one land, one heart, one hand,
One Nation, evermore!
O. W. Holmes.
CCCXLII.
THE STRIPES AND THE STARS.
O Star Spangled Banner! the flag of our pride!
Though trampled by traitors and basely defied,
Fling out to the glad winds your Red, White, and Blue,
For the heart of the North-land is beating for you!
And her strong arm is nerving to strike with a will
Till the foe and his boastings are humbled and still!
Here's welcome to wounding and combat and scars
And the glory of death—for the Stripes and the Stars!
From prairie, O ploughman! speed boldly away—
There's seed to be sown in God's furrows to-day—
Row landward, lone fisher! stout woodman, come home!
Let smith leave his anvil and weaver his loom,
And hamlet and city ring loud with the cry,
"For God and our country we'll fight till we die!
Here's welcome to wounding and combat and scars
And the glory of death—for the Stripes and the Stars!"
Invincible Banner! the Flag of the Free!
O, where treads the foot that would falter for thee?
Or the hands to be folded, till triumph is won
And the eagle looks proud, as of old, to the sun?
Give tears for the parting—a murmur of prayer—
Then Forward! the fame of our standard to share!
With welcome to wounding and combat and scars
And the glory of death—for the Stripes and the Stars!
O God of our Fathers! this Banner must shine
Where battle is hottest, in warfare divine!
The cannon has thundered, the bugle has blown,—
We fear not the summons—we fight not alone!
O, lead us, till wide from the Gulf to the Sea
The land shall be sacred to Freedom and Thee!
With love, for oppression; with blessing, for scars—
One Country—one Banner—the Stripes and the Stars!
E. D. Proctor.
CCCXLIII.
WHO'S READY?
God help us! Who's ready? There's danger before!
Who's armed and who's mounted? The foe's at the door!
The smoke of his cannon hangs black o'er the plain;
His shouts ring exultant while counting our slain;
And northward and northward he presses his line,—
Who's ready? O, forward!—for yours and for mine!
No halting, no discord, the moments are Fates;
To shame or to glory they open the gates!
There's all we hold dearest to lose or to win;
The web of the future to-day we must spin;
And bid the hours follow with knell or with chime!—
Who's ready? O, forward!—while yet there is time!
Lead armies or councils,—be soldier a-field,—
Alike, so your valor is Liberty's shield!
Alike, so you strike when the bugle-notes call,
For Country, for Fireside, for Freedom to All!
The blows of the boldest will carry the day,—
Who's ready? O, forward!—there's death in delay!
Earth's noblest are praying, at home and o'er sea,—
"God keep the great nation united and free!"
Her tyrants watch, eager to leap at our life,
If once we should falter or faint in the strife;
Our trust is unshaken, though legions assail,—
Who's ready? O, forward! and Right shall prevail.
Who's ready? "All ready!" undaunted we cry;
"For Country, for Freedom, we'll fight till we die;
No traitor, at midnight, shall pierce us in rest;
No alien, at noonday, shall stab us abreast;
The God of our Fathers is guiding us still,—
All forward! we're ready,—and conquer we will!"
E. D. Proctor.
CCCXLIV.
MITCHELL.
"HUNG BE THE HEAVENS WITH BLACK."
His mighty life was burned away
By Carolina's fiery sun;
The pestilence that walks by day
Smote him before his course seemed run.
The constellations of the sky,—
The Pleiades, the Southern Cross,—
Looked sadly down to see him die,
To see a nation weep his loss.
"Send him to us," the stars might cry,—
"You do not feel his worth below;
Your petty great men do not try
The measure of his mind to know.
"His eye could pierce our vast expanse,—
His ear could hear our morning songs,—
His mind, amid our mystic dance,
Could follow all our myriad throngs.
"Send him to us! No martyr's soul,
No hero slain in righteous wars
No raptured saint could e'er control
A holier welcome from the stars."
Take him, ye stars! Take him on high
To your vast realms of boundless space;
But once he turned from you to try
His name on martial scrolls to trace.
That once was when his country's call
Said danger to her flag was nigh;
And then her banner's stars dimmed all
The radiant lights which gemmed the sky.
Take him, loved orbs! His country's life,—
Freedom for all,—for these he wars;
For these he welcomed bloody strife,
And followed in the wake of Mars.
W. F. Williams.
CCCXLV.
WAR SONG.
DEDICATED TO THE MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENTS.
Up with the Flag of the Stripes and the Stars!
Gather together from plough and from loom!
Hark to the signal!—the music of wars
Sounding for tyrants and traitors their doom.
March, march, march, march!
Brothers unite—rouse in your might,
For Justice and Freedom, for God and the Right!
Down with the foe to the land and the laws!
Marching together our country to save,
God shall be with us to strengthen our cause,
Nerving the heart and the hand of the brave.
March, march, march, march!
Brother's unite—rouse in your might,
For Justice and Freedom, for God and the Right!
Flag of the Free! under thee will we fight,
Shoulder to shoulder, our face to the foe;
Death to all traitors, and God for the Right!
Singing this song as to battle we go:
March, march, march, march!
Freemen unite—rouse in your might
For Justice and Freedom, for God and the Right!
Land of the Free—that our fathers of old,
Bleeding together, cemented in blood—
Give us thy blessing, as brave and as bold,
Standing like one, as our ancestors stood—
We march, march, march, march!
Conquer or fall! Hark to the call:
Justice and Freedom for one and for all!
Chain of the slave we have suffered so long—
Striving together thy links we will break!
Hark! for God hears us, as echoes our song,
Sounding the cry to make Tyranny quake:
March, march, march, march!
Conquer or fall! Rouse to the call—
Justice and Freedom for one and for all!
Workmen, arise! There is work for us now;
Ours the red ledger for bayonet pen;
Sword be our hammer, and cannon our plough;
Liberty's loom must be driven by men.
March, march, march, march!
Freemen we fight, roused in our might,
For Justice and Freedom, for God and the Right.
W. W. Story.
CCCXLVI.
THE BLACK REGIMENT; OR, THE SECOND LOUISIANA AT THE STORMING OF PORT HUDSON.
Dark as the clouds of even,
Ranked in the western heaven,
Waiting the breath that lifts
All the dread mass, 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 eyeballs 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 hell 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!"
Oh! 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 bloody 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 't is heard,
Not a mere party shout;
They gave their spirits out;
Trusted the end to God,
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.
Oh, 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!
G. H. Boker.
CCCXLVII.
FORWARD!
God, to the human soul,
And all the spheres that roll,
Wrapped by his Spirit in their robes of light,
Hath said: "The primal plan,
Of all the world, and man,
Is forward! Progress is your law—your right."
The despots of the earth,
Since Freedom had her birth,
Have to their subject nations said, "Stand still;"
So, from the Polar Bear,
Comes down the freezing air,
And stiffens all things with its deadly chill.
He who doth God resist—
God's old antagonist—
Would snap the chain that binds all things to him;
And in his godless pride,
All peoples would divide,
And scatter even the choirs of seraphim.
God, all the orbs that roll,
Binds to one common goal—
One source of light and life—his radiant throne.
In one fraternal mind
All races would he bind,
Till every man in man a brother own.
Tyrants with tyrants league,
Corruption and intrigue
To strangle infant Liberty conspire.
Around her cradle, then,
Let self-devoted men
Gather, and keep unquenched her vital fire.
When Tyranny, grown bold,
To Freedom's host cries, "Hold!
Ye towards her temple at your peril march;"
"Stop," that great host replies,
Raising to heaven its eyes,
"Stop, first, the host that moves across yon arch!"
When Tyranny commands,
"Hold thou my victim's hands,
While I more firmly rivet on his chains,
Or with my bowie-knife
I'll take your craven life,
Or show my streets bespattered with your brains,"—
Freedom with forward tread,
Unblenching, turns her head,
And drawing from its sheath her flashing glave,
Calmly makes answer: "Dare
Touch of my head one hair,
I'll cut the cord that holds your every slave!"
J. Pierpont.