KEENAN’S CHARGE

By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, Brave Keenan looked in Pleasanton’s eyes For an instant—clear, and cool, and still; Then, with a smile, he said: “I will.”

“Cavalry, charge!” Not a man of them shrank; Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, Rose joyously, with a willing breath— Rose like a greeting hail to death. Then forward they sprang, and spurred, and clashed; Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed; Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, In their faded coats of the blue and yellow; And above in the air, with an instinct true, Like a bird of war their pennon flew.

With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds, And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, And strong brown faces bravely pale, For fear their proud attempt shall fail, Three hundred Pennsylvanians close On twice ten thousand gallant foes.

Line after line the troopers came To the edge of the wood that was ring’d with flame; Rode in and sabred and shot—and fell: Nor came one back his wounds to tell. And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall, While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung ’Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung. Line after line, ay, whole platoons, Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons By the maddened horses were onward borne And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn; As Keenan fought with his men, side by side.

So they rode, till there were no more to ride.

But over them lying there, shattered and mute, What deep echo rolls? ’Tis a death salute From the cannon in place; for, heroes, you braved Your fate not in vain: the army was saved! Over them now—year following year— Over their graves the pine-cones fall, And the whippoorwill chants his spectre-call; But they stir not again; they raise no cheer: They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease, Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace. The rush of their charge is resounding still, That saved the army at Chancellorsville.

Not ’mid the lightning of the stormy fight, Not in the rush upon the vandal foe, Did kingly Death, with his resistless might, Lay the great leader low.

His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke In the full sunshine of a peaceful town; When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak That propped our cause went down.

Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, Recording all his grand, heroic deeds, Freedom herself is writhing with the wound, And all the country bleeds.

He entered not the Nation’s Promised Land At the red belching of the cannon’s mouth; But broke the House of Bondage with his hand— The Moses of the South!

O gracious God! not gainless is the loss: A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown; And while his country staggers with the Cross, He rises with the Crown.

[Southern.]

What are the thoughts that are stirring his breast? What is the mystical vision he sees? —“Let us pass over the river, and rest Under the shade of the trees.”

Has he grown sick of his toils and his tasks? Sighs the worn spirit for respite or ease? Is it a moment’s cool halt that he asks Under the shade of the trees?

Is it the gurgle of waters whose flow Ofttime has come to him, borne on the breeze, Memory listens to, lapsing so low, Under the shade of the trees?

Nay—though the rasp of the flesh was so sore, Faith, that had yearnings far keener than these, Saw the soft sheen of the Thitherward Shore Under the shade of the trees;—

Caught the high psalms of ecstatic delight— Heard the harps harping, like soundings of seas— Watched earth’s assoilèd ones walking in white Under the shade of the trees.

Oh, was it strange he should pine for release, Touched to the soul with such transports as these,— He who so needed the balsam of peace, Under the shade of the trees?

Yea, it was noblest for him—it was best (Questioning naught of our Father’s decrees), There to pass over the river and rest Under the shade of the trees!

[Southern.]

The Man who fiercest charged in fight, Whose sword and prayer were long— Stonewall! Even him who stoutly stood for Wrong, How can we praise? Yet coming days Shall not forget him with this song.

Dead is the Man whose Cause is dead, Vainly he died and set his seal— Stonewall! Earnest in error, as we feel; True to the thing he deemed was due, True as John Brown or steel.

Relentlessly he routed us; But we relent, for he is low— Stonewall! Justly his fame we outlaw; so We drop a tear on the bold Virginia’s bier, Because no wreath we owe.

Dark as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dead 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 cold chains again!” Oh, what a shout there went From the black regiment!

“Charge!” trump and drum awoke; Onward the bondsmen 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 gun’s mouth 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 crushing 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 ’tis 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!

May 27, 1863.

Out of the focal and foremost fire, Out of the hospital walls as dire, Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene, (Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen!) Spectre such as we seldom see, Little Giffen of Tennessee!

“Take him—and welcome!” the surgeon said; “Much your doctor can help the dead!” And so we took him and brought him where The balm was sweet on the summer air; And we laid him down on a wholesome bed— Utter Lazarus, heel to head!

Weary war with the bated breath, Skeleton boy against skeleton Death, Months of torture, how many such! Weary weeks of the stick and crutch! Still a glint in the steel-blue eye Spoke of the spirit that would not die, And didn’t nay, more! in death’s despite The crippled skeleton learned to write! “Dear mother,” at first, of course; and then, “Dear captain”—inquiring about “the men.” Captain’s answer—“Of eighty and five, Giffen and I are left alive!”

“Johnston’s pressed at the front, they say!” Little Giffen was up and away. A tear, his first, as he bade good-by, Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye; “I’ll write, if spared.” There was news of a fight, But none of Giffen. He did not write!

I sometimes fancy that were I king Of the princely knights of the Golden Ring, With the song of the minstrel in mine ear, And the tender legend that trembles here, I’d give the best, on his bended knee, The whitest soul of my chivalry, For Little Giffen of Tennessee!

[Southern.]

Wave, wave your glorious battle-flags, brave soldiers of the North, And from the fields your arms have won to-day go proudly forth! For now, O comrades dear and leal—from whom no ills could part, Through the long years of hopes and fears, the nation’s constant heart— Men who have driven so oft the foe, so oft have striven in vain, Yet ever in the perilous hour have crossed his path again,— At last we have our heart’s desire, from them we met have wrung A victory that round the world shall long be told and sung! It was the memory of the past that bore us through the fray, That gave the grand old army strength to conquer on this day!

Oh, now forget how dark and red Virginia’s rivers flow, The Rappahannock’s tangled wilds, the glory and the woe; The fever-hung encampments, where our dying knew full sore How sweet the north-wind to the cheek it soon shall cool no more; The fields we fought, and gained, and lost; the lowland sun and rain That wasted us, that bleached the bones of our unburied slain! There was no lack of foes to meet, of deaths to die no lack, And all the hawks of heaven learned to follow on our track; But henceforth, hovering southward, their flight shall mark afar The paths of yon retreating host that shun the northern star.

At night before the closing fray, when all the front was still, We lay in bivouac along the cannon-crested hill. Ours was the dauntless Second Corps; and many a soldier knew How sped the fight, and sternly thought of what was yet to do. Guarding the centre there, we lay, and talked with bated breath Of Buford’s stand beyond the town, of gallant Reynolds’ death, Of cruel retreats through pent-up streets by murderous volleys swept,— How well the Stone, the Iron, brigades their bloody outposts kept: ’Twas for the Union, for the Flag, they perished, heroes all, And we swore to conquer in the end, or even like them to fall.

And passed from mouth to mouth the tale of what grim day just done, The fight by Round Top’s craggy spur—of all the deadliest one; It saved the left: but on the right they pressed us back too well, And like a field in spring the ground was ploughed with shot and shell. There was the ancient graveyard, its hummocks crushed and red. And there, between them, side by side, the wounded and the dead: The mangled corpses fallen above—the peaceful dead below, Laid in their graves, to slumber here, a score of years ago; It seemed their waking, wandering shades were asking of our slain, What brought such hideous tumult now where they so still had lain!

Bright rose the sun of Gettysburg that morrow morningtide, And call of trump and roll of drum from height to height replied. Hark! from the east already goes up the rattling din; The Twelfth Corps, winning back their ground, right well the day begin! They whirl fierce Ewell from their front! Now we of the Second pray, As right and left the brunt have borne, the centre might to-day. But all was still from hill to hill for many a breathless hour, While for the coming battle-shock Lee gathered in his power; And back and forth our leaders rode, who knew not rest or fear, And along the lines, where’er they came, went up the ringing cheer.

’Twas past the hour of nooning; the summer skies were blue; Behind the covering timber the foe was hid from view; So fair and sweet with waving wheat the pleasant valley lay, It brought to mind our Northern homes and meadows far away; When the whole western ridge at once was fringed with fire and smoke, Against our lines from seven-score guns the dreadful tempest broke! Then loud our batteries answer, and far along the crest, And to and fro the roaring bolts are driven east and west; Heavy and dark around us glooms the stifling sulphur-cloud, And the cries of mangled men and horse go up beneath its shroud.

The guns are still: the end is nigh: we grasp our arms anew; Oh, now let every heart be stanch and every aim be true! For look! from yonder wood that skirts the valley’s further marge, The flower of all the Southern host move to the final charge. By heaven! it is a fearful sight to see their double rank Come with a hundred battle-flags—a mile from flank to flank! Tramping the grain to earth, they come, ten thousand men abreast; Their standards wave—their hearts are brave—they hasten not, nor rest, But close the gaps our cannon make, and onward press, and nigher, And, yelling at our very front, again pour in their fire.

Now burst our sheeted lightnings forth, now all our wrath has vent! They die, they wither; through and through their wavering lines are rent. But these are gallant, desperate men, of our own race and land, Who charge anew, and welcome death, and fight us hand to hand: Vain, vain! give way, as well ye may—the crimson die is cast! Their bravest leaders bite the dust, their strength is failing fast; They yield, they turn, they fly the field: we smite them as they run; Their arms, their colors, are our spoil; the furious fight is done! Across the plain we follow far and backward push the fray: Cheer! cheer! the grand old Army at last has won the day!

Hurrah! the day has won the cause! No gray-clad host henceforth Shall come with fire and sword to tread the highways of the North! ’Twas such a flood as when ye see, along the Atlantic shore, The great spring-tide roll grandly in with swelling surge and roar: It seems no wall can stay its leap or balk its wild desire Beyond the bound that Heaven hath fixed to higher mount, and higher; But now, when whitest lifts its crest, most loud its billows call, Touched by the Power that led them on, they fall, and fall, and fall. Even thus, unstayed upon his course, to Gettysburg the foe His legions led, and fought, and fled, and might no further go.

Full many a dark-eyed Southern girl shall weep her lover dead; But with a price the fight was ours—we too have tears to shed! The bells that peal our triumph forth anon shall toll the brave, Above whose heads the cross must stand, the hill-side grasses wave! Alas! alas! the trampled grass shall thrive another year, The blossoms on the apple-boughs with each new spring appear, But when our patriot-soldiers fall, Earth gives them up to God; Though their souls rise in clearer skies, their forms are as the sod; Only their names and deeds are ours—but, for a century yet, The dead who fell at Gettysburg the land shall not forget.

God send us peace! and where for aye the loved and lost recline Let fall, O South, your leaves of palm—O North, your sprigs of pine! But when, with every ripened year, we keep the harvest-home, And to the dear Thanksgiving-feast our sons and daughters come— When children’s children throng the board in the old homestead spread, And the bent soldier of these wars is seated at the head, Long, long the lads shall listen to hear the gray-beard tell Of those who fought at Gettysburg and stood their ground so well: “’Twas for the Union and the Flag,” the veteran shall say, “Our grand old Army held the ridge, and won that glorious day!”

Like a furnace of fire blazed the midsummer sun, When to saddle we leaped at the order, Spurred on by the boom of the deep-throated gun That told of the foe on our border. A mist in our rear lay Antietam’s dark plain, And thoughts of its carnage came o’er us; But smiling beyond surged the fields of ripe grain, And we swore none should reap it before us.

That night, with the ensign who rode by my side, On the camp’s dreary edge I stood picket, Our ears intent lest every wind-rustle hide A foe’s stealthy tread in the thicket; And there, while we watched the first arrows of dawn Through the veil of the rising mists quiver, He told how the foeman had closed in upon His home by the Tennessee River.

He spoke of a sire in his weakness cut down, With his last breath the traitor-flag scorning; And his brow with the memory grew dark with a frown That paled the red light of the morning. For days he had followed the cowardly band; And, when one lagged to forage or trifle, Had seared in his forehead the deep Minié brand, And scored a fresh notch in his rifle.

But one of the rangers had cheated his fate— For him he would search the world over: Such cool-plotting passion, such keenness of hate, Ne’er saw I in woman-scorned lover. Oh, who would have thought that beneath those dark curls Lurked vengeance as sure as death-rattle; Or fancied those dreamy eyes, soft as a girl’s, Could light with the fury of battle?

To horse! pealed the bugle, while grape-shot and shell Overhead through the forest were crashing; A cheer for the flag—and the summer light fell On the blades from a thousand sheaths flashing. As mad ocean-waves to the storm-revel flock, So on we dashed, heedless of dangers; A moment our long line surged back at the shock, Then swept through the ranks of the Rangers.

I looked for the ensign. Ahead of his troop, Pressing on through the conflict infernal, His torn flag furled round him in festoon and loop, He spurred to the side of his colonel. And his clear voice rang out, as I saw his bright sword Through shako and gaudy plume shiver, With, “This for the last of the murderous horde!” And, “This for the home by the river!”

At evening, returned from pursuit of the foe, By a shell-shattered caisson we found him; And we buried him there in the sunset’s red glow, With the dear old flag knotted around him. Yet how could we mourn, when each drum’s muffled strain Told of foemen hurled back in disorder,— When we knew the North reaped her rich harvest of grain, Unharmed by a foe on her border!

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-fashioned and matter-of-fact, Slow to argue, but quick to act. That was the reason, as some folk 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 bass— Difficult music for men to face; While on the left—where now the graves Undulate like the living waves That all the 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 shells 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 buttoned over his manly breast Was a bright-blue coat with a rolling collar, And large gilt buttons—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 passed, at the hat he wore, Then at the rifle his right hand bore; And hailed him, from out their youthful lore, With scraps 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-crowned 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.

Thus 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.

Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses, Turn the key on your jewels to-day, And the wealth of your tendril-like tresses Braid back, in a serious way: No more delicate gloves, no more laces, No more trifling in boudoir and bower; But come with your souls in your faces— To meet the stern needs of the hour!

Look around! By the torchlight unsteady, The dead and the dying seem one. What! paling and trembling already, Before your dear mission’s begun? These wounds are more precious than ghastly; Fame presses her lips to each scar, As she chants of a glory which vastly Transcends all the horrors of war.

Pause here by this bedside—how mellow The light showers down on that brow! Such a brave, brawny visage!—Poor fellow! Some homestead is missing him now. Some wife shades her eyes in the clearing, Some mother sits moaning, distressed,— While the loved one lies faint, but unfearing, With the enemy’s ball in his breast.

Here’s another: a lad—a mere stripling— Picked up from the field, almost dead; With the blood through his sunny hair rippling From a horrible gash in the head. They say he was first in the action, Gay-hearted, quick-handed, and witty; He fought till he fell with exhaustion, At the gates of our fair Southern city.

Fought and fell ’neath the guns of that city, With a spirit transcending his years; Lift him up in your large-hearted pity, And touch his pale lips with your tears. Touch him gently—most sacred the duty Of dressing that poor shattered hand! God spare him to rise in his beauty, And battle once more for the land!

Who groaned? What a passionate murmur— “In thy mercy, O God, let me die!” Ha! surgeon, your hand must be firmer, That grape-shot has shattered his thigh. Fling the light on those poor furrowed features, Gray-haired and unknown—bless the brother! O God! that one of thy creatures Should e’er work such woe on another!

Wipe the sweat from his brow with your kerchief; Let the stain tattered collar go wide, See! he stretches out blindly to search if The surgeon still stands at his side. “My son’s over yonder! he’s wounded— Oh! this ball that has broken my thigh!” And again he burst out, all a-tremble,— “In thy mercy, O God! let me die!”

Pass on! It is useless to linger While others are claiming your care; There is need of your delicate finger, For your womanly sympathy, there! There are sick ones athirst for caressing— There are dying ones raving for home— There are wounds to be bound with a blessing— And shrouds to make ready for some.

They have gathered about you the harvest Of death, in its ghastliest view; The nearest as well as the farthest Is here with the traitor and true! And crowned with your beautiful patience, Made sunny with love at the heart, You must balsam the wounds of a nation, Nor falter, nor shrink from your part!

Up and down through the wards, where the fever Stalks noisome, and gaunt and impure, You must go with your steadfast endeavor To comfort, to counsel, to cure! I grant that the task’s superhuman, But strength will be given to you To do for these dear ones what woman Alone in her pity can do.

And the lips of the mothers will bless you As angels sweet visaged and pale! And the little ones run to caress you, While the wives and the sisters cry “Hail!” But e’en if you drop down unheeded, What matter? God’s ways are the best; You’ve poured out your life where ’twas needed, And He will take care of the rest.

[Southern.]

KEENAN’S CHARGE

DEATH OF STONEWALL JACKSON.

UNDER THE SHADE OF THE TREES.

STONEWALL JACKSON.

The Black Regiment

LITTLE GIFFEN OF TENNESSEE.

GETTYSBURG

AT GETTYSBURG.

JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG.

WOMAN’S WAR MISSION.