WANTED—A MAN.

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WANTED—A MAN.

By Edmund Clarence Stedman.

[This virile cry for a fit leader for the Army of the Potomac was inspired by an editorial article of Henry J. Raymond in the New York Times. It was written in 1862, when the popular feeling of chagrin and humiliation over McClellan’s failure and Pope’s disaster at Manassas was most intense. Mr. Lincoln was so strongly impressed by the poem that he read it to his Cabinet.—Editor.]

Back from the trebly crimsoned field Terrible words are thunder-tost; Full of the wrath that will not yield, Full of revenge for battles lost! Hark to their echo, as it crost The Capital, making faces wan: “End this murderous holocaust; Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!

“Give us a man of God’s own mould, Born to marshal his fellow-men; One whose fame is not bought and sold At the stroke of a politician’s pen; Give us the man of thousands ten, Fit to do as well as to plan; Give us a rallying-cry, and then, Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!

“No leader to shirk the boasting foe, And to march and countermarch our brave, Till they fall like ghosts in the marshes low, And swamp-grass covers each nameless grave; Nor another, whose fatal banners wave Aye in disaster’s shameful van; Nor another, to bluster, and lie, and rave,— Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!

“Hearts are mourning in the North, While the sister rivers seek the main, Red with our life-blood flowing forth— Who shall gather it up again? Though we march to the battle-plain Firmly as when the strife began, Shall all our offering be in vain?— Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!

“Is there never one in all the land, One on whose might the Cause may lean? Are all the common ones so grand, And all the titled ones so mean? What if your failure may have been In trying to make good bread from bran, From worthless metal a weapon keen?— Abraham Lincoln, find us a MAN!

“Oh, we will follow him to the death, Where the foeman’s fiercest columns are! Oh, we will use our latest breath, Cheering for every sacred star! His to marshal us high and far; Ours to battle, as patriots can When a hero leads the Holy War!— Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!”

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OVERTURES FROM RICHMOND.

A NEW LILLIBULERO.

By F. J. Child.

“W

“Well, Uncle Sam,” says Jefferson D., Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “You’ll have to join my Confed’racy,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, that don’t appear O, that don’t appear,” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, that don’t appear,” Says old Uncle Sam.

“So, Uncle Sam, just lay down your arms,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “Then you shall hear my reas’nable terms,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, I’d like to hear O, I’d like to hear,” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, I’d like to hear,” Says old Uncle Sam.

“First, you must own I’ve beat you in fight,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “Then, that I always have been in the right,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, rather severe O, rather severe,” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, rather severe,” Says old Uncle Sam.

“Then you must pay my national debts,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “No questions asked about my assets,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, that’s very dear O, that’s very dear,” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, that’s very dear,” Says old Uncle Sam.

“Also, some few I. O. U.’s and bets,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “Mine and Bob Toombs’s and Slidell’s and Rhett’s,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, that leaves me zero, that leaves me zero,” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, that leaves me zero,” Says old Uncle Sam.

“And, by the way, one little thing more,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “You’re to refund the cost of the war,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, just what I fear O, just what I fear,” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, just what I fear,” Says old Uncle Sam.

“Next, you must own our cavalier blood!” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “And that your Puritans sprang from the mud!” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, that mud is clear O, that mud is clear,” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, that mud is clear,” Says old Uncle Sam.

“Slavery’s of course the chief corner-stone,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “Of our NEW CIV-IL-I-ZA-TION!” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, that’s quite sincere O, that’s quite sincere,” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, that’s quite sincere,” Says old Uncle Sam.

“You’ll understand, my recreant tool,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “You’re to submit, and we are to rule,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, aren’t you a hero! aren’t you a hero!” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, aren’t you a hero!” Says old Uncle Sam.

“If to these terms you fully consent,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam, “I’ll be perpetual King-President,” Lillibulero, old Uncle Sam. “Lero, lero, take your sombrero, off to your swamps!” Says old Uncle Sam, “Lero, lero, fillibustero, cut, double-quick!” Says old Uncle Sam.

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Barbara Fretchie

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

By JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn,

The cluster’d spires of Frederick stand Green-wall’d by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep, Apple- and peach-trees fruited deep.

Fair as the garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famish’d rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall, When Lee march’d over the mountain-wall,—

Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapp’d in the morning wind: the sun Of noon look’d down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bow’d with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men haul’d down;

In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouch’d 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 shiver’d the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, Dame Barbara snatch’d the silken scarf.

She lean’d 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 stirr’d To life at that woman’s deed and word:

“Who touches a hair of yon 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 tost 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!

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MUSIC IN CAMP.

By John R. Thompson.

Two armies covered hill and plain, Where Rappahannock’s waters Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain Of battle’s recent slaughters.

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents In meads of heavenly azure; And each dread gun of the elements Slept in its high embrasure.

The breeze so softly blew, it made No forest leaf to quiver; And the smoke of the random cannonade Rolled slowly from the river.

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 banks; Till, margined by its pebbles, One wooded shore was blue with “Yanks,” And one was gray with “Rebels.”

Then all was still; and then the band, With movement 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 shore gave chorus.

The laughing ripple shoreward flew To kiss the shining pebbles; Loud shrieked the swarming 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, slow stream, its noiseless flood Poured o’er the glistening pebbles; All silent now the Yankees stood, All silent stood the Rebels.

No unresponsive 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 cabin by the prairie.

Or cold, or warm, his native skies Bend in their beauty o’er him; Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, His loved 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 simple 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.

[Southern.]

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Fredricksburg

FREDERICKSBURG.

(December, 1862.)

By W. F. W.

Eighteen hundred and sixty-two,— That is the number of wounded men Who, if the telegraph’s tale be true, Reached Washington City but yestere’en.

And it is but a handful, the telegrams add, To those who are coming by boats and by cars, Weary and wounded, dying and sad; Covered—but only in front—with scars.

Some are wounded by Minie shot, Others are torn by the hissing shell, As it burst upon them as fierce and as hot As a demon spawned in a traitor’s hell.

Some are pierced by the sharp bayonet, Others are crushed by the horses’ hoof, Or fell ’neath the shower of iron which met Them as hail beats down on an open roof.

Shall I tell what they did to meet this fate? Why was this living death their doom? Why did they fall to this piteous state Neath the rifle’s crack and the cannon’s boom?

Orders arrived, and the river they crossed; Built the bridge in the enemy’s face; No matter how many were shot and lost, And floated—sad corpses—away from the place.

Orders they heard, and they scaled the height, Climbing right “into the jaws of death”; Each man grasping his rifle-piece tight, Scarcely pausing to draw his breath.

Sudden flashed on them a sheet of flame From hidden fence and from ambuscade; A moment more—(they say this is fame)— A thousand dead men on the grass were laid.

Fifteen thousand in wounded and killed, At least, is “our loss,” the newspapers say. This loss to our army must surely be filled Against another great battle day.

“Our loss!” Whose loss? Let demagogues say That the Cabinet, President, all are in wrong: What do the orphans and widows pray? What is the burden of their sad song?

’Tis their loss! but the tears in their weeping eyes Hide Cabinet, President, Generals,—all; And they only can see a cold form that lies On the hill-side slope, by that fatal wall.

They cannot discriminate men or means,— They only demand that this blundering cease. In their frenzied grief they would end such scenes, Though that end be—even with traitors—peace.

Is thy face from thy people turned, O God? Is thy arm for the nation no longer strong? We cry from our homes—the dead cry from the sod— How long, oh, our righteous God! how long?

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TREASON’S LAST DEVICE.

By EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

[Certain politicians proposed, as a means of ending the war, that a new confederacy or union should be formed, from which the New England States should be excluded because of their implacable hostility to slavery and their consequent obnoxiousness to the South. There were many spirited replies to this proposal, the best of which is this poem.—Editor.]

“Who deserves greatness Deserves your hate ... Yon common cry of curs, whose breath I loathe As reek o’ the rotten fens.” Coriolanus. “Hark! hark! the dogs do bark.” Nursery Rhyme.

Sons of New England in the fray, Do you hear the clamor behind your back? Do you hear the yelping of Blanche and Tray? Sweetheart, and all the mongrel pack? Girded well with her ocean crags, Little our mother heeds their noise; Her eyes are fixed on crimson flags: But you—do you hear it, Yankee boys?

Do you hear them say that the patriot fire Burns on her altars too pure and bright, To the darkened heavens leaping higher, Though drenched with the blood of every fight? That in the light of its searching flame Treason and tyrants stand revealed, And the yielding craven is put to shame On Capitol floor or foughten field?

Do you hear the hissing voice which saith That she—who bore through all the land The lyre of Freedom, the torch of Faith, And young Invention’s mystic wand— Should gather her skirts and dwell apart, With not one of her sisters to share her fate,— A Hagar, wandering sick at heart? A pariah bearing the nation’s hate?

Sons, who have peopled the gorgeous West, And planted the Pilgrim arm anew, Where by a richer soil caressed, It grows as ever its parent grew,— Say, do you hear—while the very bells Of your churches ring with her ancient voice, And the song of your children sweetly tells How true was the land of your fathers’ choice—

Do you hear the traitors who bid you speak The word that shall sever the sacred tie? And ye who dwell by the golden peak, Has the subtle whisper glided by? Has it crossed the immemorial plains To coasts where the gray Pacific roars, And the Pilgrim blood in the people’s veins Is pure as the wealth of their mountain ores?

Spirits of sons who side by side In a hundred battles fought and fell, Whom now no East and West divide, In the isles where the shades of heroes dwell,— Say, has it reached your glorious rest, And ruffled the calm which crowns you there? The shame that recreants have confest The plot that floats in the troubled air?

Sons of New England, here and there, Wherever men are still holding by The honor our fathers left so fair,— Say, do you hear the cowards’ cry? Crouching amongst her grand old crags, Lightly our mother heeds their noise, With her fond eyes fixed on distant flags; But you—do you hear it, Yankee boys?

January 19, 1863.

In Louisiana

IN LOUISIANA.

By J. W. De FOREST.

Without a hillock stretched the plain; For months we had not seen a hill; The endless, flat Savannahs still Wearied our eyes with waving cane.

One tangled cane-field lay before The ambush of the cautious foe; Behind a black bayou, with low Reed-hidden, miry, treacherous shore;

A sullen swamp along the right, Where alligators slept and crawled, And moss-robed cypress giants sprawled Athwart the noontide’s blistering light.

Quick, angry spite of musketry Proclaimed our skirmishers at work; We saw their crouching figures lurk Through thickets firing from the knee.

Our Parrotts felt the distant wood With humming, shrieking, growling shell; When suddenly the mouth of hell Gaped fiercely for its human food.

A long and low blue roll of smoke Curled up a hundred yards ahead, And deadly storms of driving lead From rifle-pits and cane-fields broke.

Then, while the bullets whistled thick, And hidden batteries boomed and shelled, “Charge bayonets!” the colonel yelled; “Battalion forward,—double quick!”

With even slopes of bayonets Advanced—a dazzling, threatening crest— Right toward the rebels’ hidden nest, The dark blue, living billow sets.

The color-guard was at my side; I heard the color-sergeant groan; I heard the bullet crush the bone; I might have touched him as he died.

The life-blood spouted from his mouth And sanctified the wicked land; Of martyred saviors what a band Has suffered to redeem the South!

I had no malice in my mind; I only cried: “Close up! guide right!” My single purpose in the fight Was steady march with eyes aligned.

I glanced along the martial rows, And marked the soldiers’ eyeballs burn; Their eager faces hot and stern,— The wrathful triumph on their brows.

The traitors saw; they reeled and fled: Fear-stricken, gray-clad multitudes Streamed wildly toward the covering woods, And left us victory and their dead.

Once more the march, the tiresome plain, The Father River fringed with dykes, Gray cypresses, palmetto spikes, Bayous and swamps and yellowing canes;

With here and there plantations rolled In flowers, bananas, orange groves, Where laugh the sauntering negro droves, Reposing from the task of old;

And rarer, half-deserted towns, Devoid of men, where women scowl, Avoiding us as lepers foul With sidling gait and flouting gowns.

Thibodeaux, La., March, 1863.

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John Pelham

JOHN PELHAM.

By James R. Randall.

[In most of the collections this poem is printed under the title of “The Dead Cannoneer,” but the author assures the present editor that the only title he ever gave it is the name of the boy general, “John Pelham,” who was killed at Kelly’s Ford, Virginia, 17th March, 1863.—Editor.]

Just as the spring came laughing through the strife, With all its gorgeous cheer, In the bright April of historic life, Fell the great cannoneer.

The wondrous lulling of a hero’s breath His bleeding country weeps; Hushed in the alabaster arms of Death, Our young Marcellus sleeps.

Nobler and grander than the Child of Rome Curbing his chariot steeds, The knightly scion of a Southern home Dazzled the land with deeds.

Gentlest and bravest in the battle-brunt, The champion of the truth, He bore his banner to the very front Of our immortal youth.

A clang of sabres ’mid Virginian snow, The fiery pang of shells,— And there’s a wail of immemorial woe In Alabama dells.

The pennon drops that led the sacred band Along the crimson field; The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand Over the spotless shield.

We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face; While round the lips and eyes, Couched in their marble slumber, flashed the grace Of a divine surprise.

O mother of a blessed soul on high! Thy tears may soon be shed; Think of thy boy with princes of the sky, Among the Southern dead!

How must he smile on this dull world beneath, Fevered with swift renown,— He, with the martyr’s amaranthine wreath Twining the victor’s crown!

[Southern.]

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THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTON HARBOR.

(Bombardment of Fort Sumter by the fleet, 7th April, 1863.)

By PAUL H. HAYNE.

Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe April day, The Northmen’s mailed “Invincibles” steamed up fair Charleston Bay; They came in sullen file and slow, low-breasted on the wave, Black as a midnight front of storm, and silent as the grave.

II. A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as those dread monsters drew More closely to the game of death across the breezeless blue, And twice ten thousand hearts of those who watched the scene afar, Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle’s broadening star.

III. Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect stands, The ready lanyards firmly grasped in bold, untrembling hands, So moveless in their marbled calm, their stern heroic guise, They looked like forms of statued stone with burning human eyes!

IV. Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately rustling fold, Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight’s ruddy gold,— They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widely echoing cheers, And then—once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait the grim cannoneers.

V. Onward—in sullen file and slow, low glooming on the wave, Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the grave, When sudden, shivering up the calm, o’er startled flood and shore, Burst from the sacred Island Fort the thunder-wrath of yore!

VI. Ha! brutal Corsairs! though ye come thrice-cased in iron mail, Beware the storm that’s opening now, God’s vengeance guides the hail! Ye strive, the ruffian types of Might, ’gainst law and truth and Right; Now quail beneath a sturdier Power, and own a mightier Might!

VII. No empty boast! for while we speak, more furious, wilder, higher, Dart from the circling batteries a hundred tongues of fire; The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of heaven seems rent above; Fight on, O knightly gentlemen! for faith and home and love!

VIII. There’s not in all that line of flame, one soul that would not rise To seize the victor’s wreath of blood, though death must give the prize— There’s not in all this anxious crowd that throngs the ancient town A maid who does not yearn for power to strike one despot down.

IX. The strife grows fiercer! ship by ship the proud armada sweeps, Where hot from Sumter’s raging breast the volleyed lightning leaps; And ship by ship, raked, overborne, ere burned the sunset light, Crawls in the gloom of baffled hate beyond the field of fight!

X. O glorious Empress of the Main! from out thy storied spires Thou well mayst peal thy bells of joy, and light thy festal fires,— Since Heaven this day hath striven for thee, hath nerved thy dauntless sons, And thou in clear-eyed faith hast seen God’s angels near the guns!

[Southern.]

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Running the Batteries

RUNNING THE BATTERIES.

(As observed from the anchorage above Vicksburg, April, 1863.)

By HERMAN MELVILLE.

A moonless night—a friendly one; A haze dimmed the shadowy shore As the first lampless boat slid silent on; Hist! and we spake no more; We but pointed, and stilly, to what we saw.

We felt the dew, and seemed to feel The secret like a burden laid. The first boat melts; and a second keel Is blent with the foliaged shade— Their midnight rounds have the rebel officers made?

Unspied as yet. A third—a fourth— Gunboat and transport in Indian file Upon the war-path, smooth from the North; But the watch may they hope to beguile? The manned river-batteries stretch far mile on mile.

A flame leaps out; they are seen; Another and another gun roars; We tell the course of the boats through the screen By each further fort that pours, And we guess how they jump from their beds on those shrouded shores.

Converging fires. We speak, though low: “That blastful furnace can they thread?” “Why, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego Came out all right, we read; The Lord, be sure, he helps his people, Ned.”

How we strain our gaze. On bluffs they shun A golden growing flame appears— Confirms to a silvery steadfast one: “The town is afire!” crows Hugh; “three cheers!” Lot stops his mouth: “Nay, lad, better three tears.”

A purposed light; it shows our fleet; Yet a little late in its searching ray, So far and strong, that in phantom cheat Lank on the deck our shadows lay; The shining flag-ship stings their guns to furious play.

How dread to mark her near the glare And glade of death the beacon throws Athwart the racing waters there; One by one each plainer grows, Then speeds a blazoned target to our gladdened foes.

The impartial cresset lights as well The fixed forts to the boats that run; And, plunged from the ports, their answers swell Back to each fortress dun: Ponderous words speaks every monster gun.

Fearless they flash through gates of flame, The salamanders hard to hit, Though vivid shows each bulky frame; And never the batteries intermit, Nor the boat’s huge guns; they fire and flit.

Anon a lull. The beacon dies. “Are they out of that strait accurst?” But other flames now dawning rise, Not mellowly brilliant like the first, But rolled in smoke, whose whitish volumes burst.

A baleful brand, a hurrying torch Whereby anew the boats are seen— A burning transport all alurch! Breathless we gaze; yet still we glean Glimpses of beauty as we eager lean.

The effulgence takes an amber glow Which bathes the hill-side villas far; Affrighted ladies mark the show Painting the pale magnolia— The fair, false, Circe light of cruel War.

The barge drifts doomed, a plague-struck one, Shoreward in yawls the sailors fly. But the gauntlet now is nearly run, The spleenful forts by fits reply, And the burning boat dies down in morning’s sky.

All out of range. Adieu, Messieurs! Jeers, as it speeds, our parting gun. So burst we through their barriers And menaces every one; So Porter proves himself a brave man’s son.