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[1] The troops during the war were accustomed to express their incredulity, when news could not be traced to a trustworthy source, by saying that the tidings had been received by “grapevine telegraph.” Hence a canard was called a “grapevine.”—Editor.

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THE “VARUNA.”

(Sunk April 24, 1862.)

By GEORGE H. BOKER.

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Who has not heard of the dauntless Varuna? Who has not heard of the deeds she has done? Who shall not hear, while the brown Mississippi Rushes along from the snow to the sun?
Crippled and leaking she entered the battle, Sinking and burning she fought through the fray; Crushed were her sides and the waves ran across her, Ere, like a death wounded lion at bay, Sternly she closed in the last fatal grapple, Then in her triumph moved grandly away.
Five of the rebels, like satellites round her, Burned in her orbit of splendor and fear; One, like the pleiad of mystical story, Shot, terror-stricken, beyond her dread sphere.
We who are waiting with crowns for the victors, Though we should offer the wealth of our store, Load the Varuna from deck down to kelson, Still would be niggard, such tribute to pour On courage so boundless. It beggars possession,— It knocks for just payment at heaven’s bright door!
Cherish the heroes who fought the Varuna; Treat them as kings if they honor your way; Succor and comfort the sick and the wounded; Oh! for the dead let us all kneel to pray!
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THE RIVER FIGHT.

By HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

[Admiral Farragut was so impressed with this irregular but spirited description of the river battle below New Orleans that he sought out the author and their acquaintance ended in a warm friendship. Brownell having expressed a desire to witness a naval conflict, Farragut took him on board the Flagship Hartford at the time of the storming of the Mobile forts, and the poet repaid the courtesy with the poem which appears elsewhere in this collection, called “The Bay Fight.”—Editor.]

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Do you know of the dreary land, If land such region may seem, Where ’tis neither sea nor strand, Ocean, nor good, dry land, But the nightmare marsh of a dream? Where the Mighty River his death-road takes, ’Mid pools and windings that coil like snakes, A hundred leagues of bayous and lakes, To die in the great Gulf Stream?
No coast-line clear and true, Granite and deep-sea blue, On that dismal shore you pass, Surf-worn boulder or sandy beach,— But ooze-flats as far as the eye can reach, With shallows of water-grass; Reedy Savannahs, vast and dun, Lying dead in the dim March sun; Huge, rotting trunks and roots that lie Like the blackened bones of shapes gone by, And miles of sunken morass.
No lovely, delicate thing Of life o’er the waste is seen But the cayman couched by his weedy spring, And the pelican, bird unclean, Or the buzzard, flapping with heavy wing, Like an evil ghost o’er the desolate scene.
Ah! many a weary day With our Leader there we lay. In the sultry haze and smoke, Tugging our ships o’er the bar, Till the spring was wasted far, Till his brave heart almost broke. For the sullen river seemed As if our intent he dreamed,— All his sallow mouths did spew and choke. But ere April fully passed All ground over at last And we knew the die was cast,— Knew the day drew nigh To dare to the end one stormy deed, Might save the land at her sorest need, Or on the old deck to die!
Anchored we lay,—and a morn the more, To his captains and all his men Thus wrote our old commodore— (He wasn’t Admiral then):— “General Orders: Send your to’gallant masts down, Rig in each flying jib-boom! Clear all ahead for the loom Of traitor fortress and town, Or traitor fleet bearing down
“In with your canvas high; We shall want no sail to fly! Top sail, foresail, spanker, and jib, (With the heart of oak in the oaken rib,) Shall serve us to win or die!
“Trim every sail by the head, (So shall you spare the lead,) Lest if she ground, your ship swing round, Bows in shore, for a wreck. See your grapnels all clear with pains, And a solid kedge in your port main-chains, With a whip to the main yard: Drop it heavy and hard When you grappel a traitor deck!
“On forecastle and on poop Mount guns, as best you may deem. If possible, rouse them up (For still you must bow the stream). Also hoist and secure with stops Howitzers firmly in your tops, To fire on the foe abeam.
“Look well to your pumps and hose; Have water tubs fore and aft, For quenching flame in your craft, And the gun crew’s fiery thirst. See planks with felt fitted close, To plug every shot-hole tight. Stand ready to meet the worst! For, if I have reckoned aright, They will serve us shot, Both cold and hot, Freely enough to-night.
“Mark well each signal I make,— (Our life-long service at stake, And honor that must not lag!) What e’er the peril and awe, In the battle’s fieriest flaw, Let never one ship withdraw Till the orders come from the flag!”
Would you hear of the river fight? It was two of a soft spring night; God’s stars looked down on all; And all was clear and bright But the low fog’s clinging breath; Up the River of Death Sailed the great Admiral.
On our high poop-deck he stood, And round him ranged the men Who have made their birthright good Of manhood once and again,— Lords of helm and of sail, Tried in tempest and gale, Bronzed in battle and wreck. Bell and Bailey grandly led Each his line of the Blue and Red; Wainwright stood by our starboard rail; Thornton fought the deck. And I mind me of more than they, Of the youthful, steadfast ones, That have shown them worthy sons Of the seamen passed away. Tyson conned our helm that day; Watson stood by his guns.
What thought our Admiral then, Looking down on his men? Since the terrible day,— (Day of renown and tears!) When at anchor the Essex lay,— Holding her foes at bay,— When a boy by Porter’s side he stood, Till deck and plank-shear were dyed with blood; ’Tis half a hundred years,— Half a hundred years to a day!
Who could fail with him? Who reckon of life or limb? Not a pulse but beat the higher! There had you seen, by the starlight dim, Five hundred faces strong and grim: The Flag is going under fire! Right up by the fort, With her helm hard aport, The Hartford is going under fire!
The way to our work was plain. Caldwell had broken the chain (Two hulks swung down amain Soon as ’twas sundered). Under the night’s dark blue, Steering steady and true, Ship after ship went through, Till, as we hove in view, “Jackson” out-thundered!
Back echoed “Philip!” ah! then Could you have seen our men. How they sprung in the dim night haze, To their work of toil and of clamor! How the boarders, with sponge and rammer, And their captains, with cord and hammer, Kept every muzzle ablaze. How the guns, as with cheer and shout— Our tackle-men hurled them out— Brought up on the water-ways!
First, as we fired at their flash, ’Twas lightning and black eclipse, With a bellowing roll and crash. But soon, upon either bow, What with forts and fire-rafts and ships, (The whole fleet was hard at it now,) All pounding away!—and Porter Still thundering with shell and mortar,— ’Twas the mighty sound and form!
(Such you see in the far South, After long heat and drought, As day draws nigh to even, Arching from north to south, Blinding the tropic sun, The great black bow comes on, Till the thunder-veil is riven,— When all is crash and levin, And the cannonade of heaven Rolls down the Amazon!)
But, as we worked along higher, Just where the river enlarges, Down came a pyramid of fire,— It was one of your long coal barges. (We had often had the like before.) ’Twas coming down on us to larboard, Well in with the eastern shore; And our pilot, to let it pass round, (You may guess we never stopped to sound) Giving us a rank sheer to starboard, Ran the Flag hard and fast aground!
’Twas nigh abreast of the Upper Fort, And straightway a rascal ram (She was shaped like the Devil’s dam) Puffed away for us, with a snort, And shoved it, with spiteful strength, Right alongside of us to port. It was all of our ship’s length,— A huge, crackling Cradle of the Pit! Pitch-pine knots to the brim, Belching flame red and grim, What a roar came up from it!
Well, for a little it looked bad: But these things are, somehow, shorter, In the acting than in the telling; There was no singing out or yelling, Or any fussing and fretting, No stampede, in short; But there we were, my lad, All afire on our port quarter, Hammocks ablaze in the netting, Flames spouting in at every port, Our fourth cutter burning at the davit (No chance to lower away and save it).
In a twinkling, the flames had risen Half way to main-top and mizzen, Darting up the shrouds like snakes! Ah, how we clanked at the brakes, And the deep, steaming pumps throbbed under, Sending a ceaseless flow.
Our topmen, a dauntless crowd, Swarmed in rigging and shroud: There, (’twas a wonder!) The burning ratlines and strands They quenched with their bare, hard hands; But the great guns below Never silenced their thunder.
At last, by backing and sounding, When we were clear of grounding, And under headway once more, The whole rebel fleet came rounding The point. If we had it hot before, ’Twas now from shore to shore, One long, loud, thundering roar,— Such crashing, splintering, and pounding, And smashing as you never heard before!
But that we fought foul wrong to wreck, And to save the land we loved so well, You might have deemed our long gun-deck Two hundred feet of hell!
For above all was battle, Broadside, and blaze, and rattle, Smoke and thunder alone; (But, down in the sick-bay, Where our wounded and dying lay, There was scarce a sob or a moan).
And at last, when the dim day broke, And the sullen sun awoke, Drearily blinking O’er the haze and the cannon smoke, That ever such morning dulls,— There were thirteen traitor hulls On fire and sinking!
Now, up the river!—through mad Chalmette Sputters a vain resistance yet, Small helm we gave her our course to steer,— ’Twas nicer work then you well would dream, With cant and sheer to keep her clear Of the burning wrecks that cumbered the stream, The Louisiana, hurled on high, Mounts in thunder to meet the sky! Then down to the depths of the turbid flood,— Fifty fathom of rebel mud! The Mississippi comes floating down, A mighty bonfire from off the town; And along the river, on stocks and ways, A half-hatched devil’s brood is ablaze,— The great Anglo-Norman is all in flames, (Hark to the roar of her trembling frames!) And the smaller fry that Treason would spawn Are lighting Algiers like an angry dawn!
From stem to stern, how the pirates burn, Fired by the furious hands that built! So to ashes forever turn The suicide wrecks of wrong and guilt!
But as we neared the city, By field and vast plantation, (Ah! millstone of our nation!) With wonder and with pity, What crowds we there espied Of dark and wistful faces, Mute in their toiling places, Strangely and sadly eyed, Haply ’mid doubt and fear, Deeming deliverance near, (One gave the ghost of a cheer!)
And on that dolorous strand, To greet the victor brave, One flag did welcome wave— Raised, ah me! by a wretched hand, All outworn on our cruel land,— The withered hand of a slave!
But all along the levee, In a dark and drenching rain, (By this ’twas pouring heavy,) Stood a fierce and sullen train, A strange and frenzied time! There were scowling rage and pain, Curses, howls, and hisses, Out of Hate’s black abysses,— Their courage and their crime All in vain—all in vain!
For from the hour that the Rebel Stream With the Crescent City lying abeam, Shuddered under our keel, Smit to the heart with self-struck sting, Slavery died in her scorpion-ring And Murder fell on his steel.
’Tis well to do and dare; But ever may grateful prayer Follow, as aye it ought, When the good fight is fought, When the true deed is done. Aloft in heaven’s pure light, (Deep azure crossed on white,) Our fair Church pennant waves O’er a thousand thankful braves, Bareheaded in God’s bright sun.
Lord of mercy and frown, Ruling o’er sea and shore, Send us such scene once more! All in line of battle When the black ships bear down On tyrant fort and town, ’Mid cannon cloud and rattle; And the great guns once more Thunder back the roar Of the traitor walls ashore, And the traitor flags come down.
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Sheridan’s Ride.

SHERIDAN’S RIDE.

By THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

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Up from the south, at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste to the chieftain’s door, The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away.
And wider still those billows of war Thunder’d along the horizon’s bar; And louder yet into Winchester roll’d The roar of that red sea uncontroll’d, Making the blood of the listener cold, As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, With Sheridan twenty miles away.
But there is a road from Winchester town, A good broad highway leading down: And there, through the flush of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight, As if he knew the terrible need He stretch’d away with his utmost speed; Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away.
Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south, The dust like smoke from the cannon’s mouth, Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away.
Under his spurning feet, the road, Like an arrowy Alpine river flow’d And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind; And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire. But, lo! he is nearing his heart’s desire; He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away.
The first that the general saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; What was done? what to do? a glance told him both. Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath, He dash’d down the line, ’mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compell’d it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril’s play, He seem’d to the whole great army to say: “I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down to save the day.”
Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky, The American soldier’s Temple of Fame, There with the glorious general’s name Be it said, in letters both bold and bright: “Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the fight, From Winchester,—twenty miles away!”

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KEARNEY AT SEVEN PINES.

By EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

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So that soldierly legend is still on its journey— That story of Kearney 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 Kearney’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 the 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? “Oh, anywhere! Forward! ’Tis all the same, Colonel: You’ll find lovely fighting along the whole line!”
Oh, 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.

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STONEWALL JACKSON’S WAY.

By J. W. PALMER.

[Mr. William Gilmore Simms tells us that this poem, stained with blood, was found on the person of a dead soldier of the Stonewall brigade after one of Jackson’s battles in the Shenandoah Valley. Its authorship, long unknown, has been discovered by Mr. Francis F. Browne.—Editor.]

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Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails, Stir up the camp-fire bright; No growling if the canteen fails, We’ll make a roaring night, Here Shenandoah brawls along, There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, To swell the brigade’s rousing song Of “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”
We see him now—the queer slouched hat Cocked o’er his eye askew; The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat, So calm, so blunt, so true. The “Blue-light Elder” knows ’em well; Says he, “That’s Bank’s—he’s fond of shell; Lord save his soul! we’ll give him—” well! That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”
Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off! Old Blue Light’s goin’ to pray. Strangle the fool that dares to scoff! Attention! it’s his way. Appealing from his native sod, In forma pauperïs to God: “Lay bare Thine arm; stretch forth Thy rod! Amen!” That’s “Stonewall’s way.”
He’s in the saddle now. Fall in! Steady! the whole brigade! Hill’s at the ford, cut off; we’ll win His way out, ball and blade! What matter if our shoes are worn? What matter if our feet are torn? “Quick step! we’re with him before morn!” That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”
The sun’s bright lances rout the mists Of morning, and, by George! Here’s Longstreet, struggling in the lists, Hemmed in an ugly gorge. Pope and his Dutchmen, whipped before; “Bay’nets and grape!” hear Stonewall roar; “Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby’s score!” In “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”
Ah! Maiden, wait and watch and yearn For news of Stonewall’s band! Ah! Widow, read, with eyes that burn, That ring upon thy hand. Ah! Wife, sew on, pray on, hope on; Thy life shall not be all forlorn; The foe had better ne’er been born That gets in “Stonewall’s way.”
[Southern.]
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MARCHING ALONG.

By WILLIAM B. BRADBURY.

[During the Civil War this song was frequently sung upon the march by the soldiers of the Army of the Potomac. Except “When this Cruel War is Over” and the doggerel about “John Brown’s Body,” there was scarcely any song so often heard. The name of the leader was changed, from time to time, to accord with the facts.—Editor.]

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The army is gathering from near and from far; The trumpet is sounding the call for the war; McClellan’s our leader, he’s gallant and strong; We’ll gird on our armor and be marching along.
Chorus.—Marching along, we are marching along, Gird on the armor and be marching along; McClellan’s our leader, he’s gallant and strong; For God and our country we are marching along.
The foe is before us in battle array, But let us not waver, or turn from the way; The Lord is our strength, and the Union’s our song; With courage and faith we are marching along.
Chorus.—Marching along, etc.
Our wives and our children we leave in your care; We feel you will help them with sorrow to bear: ’Tis hard thus to part, but we hope ’twon’t be long: We’ll keep up our heart as we’re marching along.
Chorus.—Marching along, etc.
We sigh for our country, we mourn for our dead; For them now our last drop of blood we will shed; Our cause is the right one—our foe’s in the wrong; Then gladly we’ll sing as we’re marching along.
Chorus.—Marching along, etc.
The flag of our country is floating on high; We’ll stand by that flag till we conquer or die; McClellan’s our leader, he’s gallant and strong; We’ll gird on our armor and be marching along.
Chorus.—Marching along, etc.

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THE BURIAL OF LATANÉ.

By JOHN R. THOMPSON.

[Captain Latané, of Stuart’s Confederate cavalry was killed during the Pamunkey expedition in 1862. He was buried by a company of women, one of whom read the service for the dead, while a little girl strewed flowers on the grave.—Editor.]

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The combat raged not long, but ours the day; And, through the hosts that compassed us around, Our little band rode proudly on its way, Leaving one gallant comrade, glory-crowned, Unburied on the field he died to gain— Single of all his men, amid the hostile slain.
One moment on the battle’s edge he stood— Hope’s halo, like a helmet, round his hair; The next beheld him, dabbled in his blood, Prostrate in death—and yet, in death how fair! Even thus he passed through the red gates of strife, From earthly crowns and palms, to an immortal life.
A brother bore his body from the field, And gave it unto strangers’ hands, that closed The calm blue eyes, on earth forever sealed, And tenderly the slender limbs composed: Strangers, yet sisters, who, with Mary’s love, Sat by the open tomb, and, weeping, looked above.
A little child strewed roses on his bier— Pale roses, not more stainless than his soul, Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere, That blossomed with good actions—brief, but whole; The aged matron and the faithful slave Approached with reverent feet the hero’s lowly grave.
No man of God might say the burial rite Above the “rebel”—thus declared the foe That blanched before him in the deadly fight; But woman’s voice, with accents soft and low, Trembling with pity—touched with pathos—read Over his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead.
“’Tis sown in weakness, it is raised in power!” Softly the promise floated on the air, While the low breathings of the sunset hour Came back responsive to the mourner’s prayer. Gently they laid him underneath the sod, And left him with his fame, his country, and his God!
Let us not weep for him, whose deeds endure! So young, so brave, so beautiful! He died As he had wished to die; the past is sure; Whatever yet of sorrow may betide Those who still linger by the stormy shore, Change cannot harm him now, nor fortune touch him more.
[Southern.]
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TARDY GEORGE.

[This poem was written at a time when the impatience of the Northern people with the delay of McClellan to make use of the means so lavishly provided for him, was scarcely to be restrained. For many months McClellan had been in command of a vast army, perfectly equipped and thoroughly disciplined, yet month after month went by with nothing done and nothing attempted. The discontent of the people found much angrier expression than was given to it in these stanzas, but this is one of the best metrical protests that appeared.—Editor.]

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What are you waiting for, George, I pray? To scour your cross-belts with fresh pipe-clay? To burnish your buttons, to brighten your guns; Or wait you for May-day and warm-spring suns? Are you blowing your fingers because they are cold, Or catching your breath ere you take a hold? Is the mud knee-deep in valley and gorge? What are you waiting for, tardy George?
Want you a thousand more cannon made, To add to the thousand now arrayed? Want you more men, more money to pay? Are not two millions enough per day? Wait you for gold and credit to go, Before we shall see your martial show; Till Treasury Notes will not pay to forge? What are you waiting for, tardy George?
Are you waiting for your hair to turn, Your heart to soften, your bowels to yearn A little more toward “our Southern friends,” As at home and abroad they work their ends? “Our Southern friends!” whom you hold so dear That you do no harm and give no fear, As you tenderly take them by the gorge— What are you waiting for, tardy George?
Now that you’ve marshalled your whole command, Planned what you would, and changed what you planned, Practised with shot and practised with shell, Know to a hair where every one fell, Made signs by day and signals by night; Was it all done to keep out of a fight? Is the whole matter too heavy a charge? What are you waiting for, tardy George?
Shall we have more speeches, more reviews? Or are you waiting to hear the news; To hold up your hands in mute surprise, When France and England shall “recognize”? Are you too grand to fight traitors small? Must you have a nation to cope withal? Well, hammer the anvil and blow the forge— You’ll soon have a dozen, tardy George.
Suppose for a moment, George, my friend— Just for a moment—you condescend To use the means that are in your hands, The eager muskets and guns and brands; Take one bold step on the Southern sod, And leave the issue to watchful God! For now the nation raises its gorge, Waiting and watching you, tardy George.
I should not much wonder, George, my boy, If Stanton get in his head a toy, And some fine morning, ere you are out, He send you all “to the right about”— You and Jomini, and all the crew Who think that war is nothing to do But to drill and cipher, and hammer and forge— What are you waiting for, tardy George?
January, 1862.