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THE LOYAL FISHER.

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The wife in the cot is lonely Since the fisher went away, And the sun-burnt child it hath not smil’d This many and many a day. And the schools of mack’rel come unscared To the shoals of the inner bay.
For the fisherman said one spring-time: “Dear wife, I have set my sail These twenty years to the northern meres, The icebergs, the mist and gale, And my country hath paid the shot, good wife, However I chanced to fail.”
“Yes, paid for my sailor’s knowledge, And the skill of my ready hand; And the blue on my arm, as a sacred charm, Is the flag that guards the land. The time has come to pay that debt, Tho’ my life it should demand.”
So bravely the loyal fisher Sailed for the southern sea, Never a hook nor a bait he took For the deadly fishery; But the staunchest man at the straining rope In the northerner was he.
On the bloody deck of the Hartford At last the fisher lay, The azure charm pricked on his arm Was striped with red that day; And his debt of twenty years was paid With a life in Mobile Bay.
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SHERMAN’S MARCH TO THE SEA.

By SAMUEL H. M. BYERS.

[General Sherman, in a recent conversation with the editor of this collection, declared that it was this poem with its phrase, “march to the sea,” that threw a glamour of romance over the campaign which it celebrates. Said General Sherman: “The thing was nothing more or less than a change of base, an operation perfectly familiar to every military man, but a poet got hold of it, gave it the captivating label, ‘The March to the Sea,’ and the unmilitary public made a romance out of it.” It may be remarked that the General’s modesty overlooks the important fact that the romance lay really in his own deed of derring-do; the poet merely recorded it, or at most interpreted it to the popular intelligence. The glory of the great campaign was Sherman’s and his army’s; the joy of celebrating it was the poet’s; the admiring memory of it is the people’s.—Editor.]

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SHERMAN’S MARCH TO THE SEA.

O
Our camp-fires shone bright on the mountain That frowned on the river below, As we stood by our guns in the morning, And eagerly watched for the foe; When a rider came out of the darkness That hung over mountain and tree, And shouted: “Boys, up and be ready! For Sherman will march to the sea.”
Then cheer upon cheer for bold Sherman Went up from each valley and glen, And the bugles re-echoed the music That came from the lips of the men; For we knew that the stars in our banner More bright in their splendor would be, And that blessings from Northland would greet us When Sherman marched down to the sea.
Then forward, boys! forward to battle! We marched on our wearisome way, We stormed the wild hills of Resaca, God bless those who fell on that day! Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory, Frowned down on the flag of the free, But the East and the West bore our standard And Sherman marched on to the sea.
Still onward we pressed till our banners Swept out from Atlanta’s grim walls, And the blood of the patriot dampened The soil where the traitor flag falls. We paused not to weep for the fallen, Who slept by each river and tree. Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurel As Sherman marched down to the sea.
Oh, proud was our army that morning, That stood where the pine darkly towers, When Sherman said: “Boys, you are weary, But to-day fair Savannah is ours!” Then sang we the song of our chieftain, That echoed o’er river and lea, And the stars in our banner shone brighter When Sherman marched down to the sea.
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SHERMAN’S MARCH

By A Soldier.

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Their lips are still as the lips of the dead, The gaze of their eyes is straight ahead; The tramp, tramp, tramp of ten thousand feet Keep time to that muffled, monotonous beat,— Rub a dub dub! rub a dub dub!
Ten thousand more! and still they come To fight a battle for Christendom! With cannon and caissons, and flags unfurled, The foremost men in all the world! Rub a dub dub! rub a dub dub!
The foe is entrenched on the frowning hill,— A natural fortress, strengthened by skill; But vain are the walls to those who face The champions of the human race! Rub a dub dub; rub a dub dub!
“By regiment! Forward into line!” Then sabres and guns and bayonets shine. Oh ye, who feel your fate at last, Repeat the old prayer as your hearts beat fast! Rub a dub dub! rub a dub dub!
Oh, ye who waited and prayed so long That Right might have a fair fight with Wrong, No more in fruitless marches shall plod, But smite the foe with the wrath of God! Rub a dub dub! rub a dub dub!
O Death! what a charge that carried the hill! That carried, and kept, and holds it still! The foe is broken and flying with fear, While far on their route our drummers I hear,— Rub a dub dub! rub a dub dub!
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THE YEAR OF JUBILEE.

[A body of negro troops entered Richmond singing this song when the Union forces took possession of the Confederate capital. It is an interesting fact, illustrative of the elasticity of spirit shown by the losers in the great contest, that the song, which might have been supposed to be peculiarly offensive to their wounded pride and completely out of harmony with their deep depression and chagrin, became at once a favorite among them, and was sung, with applause, by young men and maidens in wellnigh every house in Virginia.—Editor.]

S
Say, darkeys, hab you seen de massa, Wid de muffstash on he face, Go long de road some time dis mornin’, Like he gwine leabe de place? He see de smoke way up de ribber Whar de Lincum gunboats lay; He took he hat an’ leff berry sudden, And I spose he’s runned away. De massa run, ha, ha! De darkey stay, ho, ho! It mus’ be now de kingdum comin’, An’ de yar ob jubilo.
He six foot one way an’ two foot todder, An’ he weigh six hundred poun’; His coat so big he couldn’t pay de tailor, An’ it won’t reach half way roun’; He drill so much dey calls him cap’n, An he git so mighty tanned, I spec he’ll try to fool dem Yankees, For to tink he contraband. De massa run, ha, ha! De darkey stay, ho, ho! It mus’ be now de kingdum comin’, An’ de yar ob jubilo.
De darkeys got so lonesome libb’n In de log hut on de lawn, Dey moved dere tings into massa’s parlor For to keep it while he gone. Dar’s wine an’ cider in de kitchin, An’ de darkeys dey hab some, I spec it will be all fiscated, When de Lincum sojers come. De massa run, ha, ha! De darkey stay, ho, ho! It mus’ be now de kingdum comin’, An’ de yar ob jubilo.
De oberseer he makes us trubble, An’ he dribe us roun’ a spell, We lock him up in de smoke-house cellar, Wid de key flung in de well. De whip am lost, de han’-cuff broke, But de massy hab his pay; He big an’ ole enough for to know better Dan to went an’ run away. De massa run, ha, ha! De darkey stay, ho, ho! It mus’ be now de kingdum comin’, An’ de yar ob jubilo.
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THE CONQUERED BANNER.

By Abram J. Ryan.

[This poem appeared very soon after the surrender of the Confederate armies, and was probably the first, as it is the finest, poetical expression of reverent regret for the Lost Cause, without any touch of bitterness in its loss. The author was a Catholic priest, who wrote a number of poems of merit, though none that appealed so strongly as this one does to the generous sympathy of the victor with the sorrow of the vanquished. The author was born in Norfolk, Va., August 15, 1839, and died in Louisville, Ky., April 22, 1886.—Editor.]

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The Conquered Banner

THE CONQUERED BANNER.

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Furl that Banner, for ’tis weary, Round its staff ’tis drooping dreary: Furl it, fold it,—it is best; For there’s not a man to wave it, And there’s not a sword to save it, And there’s not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it, And its foes now scorn and brave it: Furl it, hide it,—let it rest!
Take the Banner down! ’tis tattered; Broken is its staff and shattered, And the valiant hosts are scattered Over whom it floated high. Oh, ’tis hard for us to fold it, Hard to think there’s none to hold it, Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh!
Furl that Banner—furl it sadly; Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, And ten thousands wildly, madly Swore it should forever wave— Swore that foemen’s sword could never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, And that flag should float forever O’er their freedom, or their grave!
Furl it!—for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; And the Banner—it is trailing, While around it sounds the wailing, Of its people in their woe;
For though conquered, they adore it— Love the cold dead hands that bore it, Weep for those who fell before it, Pardon those who trailed and tore it; And, oh, wildly they deplore it, Now to furl and fold it so!
Furl that Banner! True, ’tis gory, Yet ’tis wreathed around with glory, And ’twill live in song and story Though its folds are in the dust! For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages— Furl its folds though now we must!
Furl that Banner, softly, slowly; Treat it gently—it is holy, For it droops above the dead; Touch it not—unfold it never; Let it droop there, furled forever,— For its people’s hopes are fled.
[Southern.]

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SOMEBODY’S DARLING.

By MARIA LA CONTE.

I
Into a ward of the whitewashed halls Where the dead and the dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, Somebody’s darling was borne one day— Somebody’s darling, so young and brave; Wearing yet on his sweet pale face— Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave— The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold Kissing the snow of that fair young brow, Pale are the lips of delicate mould— Somebody’s darling is dying now. Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow Brush his wandering waves of gold; Cross his hands on his bosom now— Somebody’s darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once for somebody’s sake, Murmur a prayer soft and low; One bright curl from its fair mates take— They were somebody’s pride, you know. Somebody’s hand hath rested here— Was it a mother’s, soft and white? Or have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in their waves of light?
God knows best. He has somebody’s love, Somebody’s heart enshrined him there, Somebody wafts his name above, Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; Somebody’s kiss on his forehead lay, Somebody clung to his parting hand.
Somebody’s watching and waiting for him, Yearning to hold him again to her heart; And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, And the smiling, childlike lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead— Pausing to drop on his grave a tear. Carve on the wooden slab o’er his head: “Somebody’s darling slumbers here.”
[Southern.]

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LEFT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.

By SARAH T. BOLTON.

W
What, was it a dream? am I all alone In the dreary night and the drizzling rain? Hist!—ah, it was only the river’s moan; They have left me behind with the mangled slain.
Yes, now I remember it all too well! We met, from the battling ranks apart; Together our weapons flashed and fell, And mine was sheathed in his quivering heart.
In the cypress gloom, where the deed was done, It was all too dark to see his face; But I heard his death groans, one by one, And he holds me still in a cold embrace.
He spoke but once, and I could not hear The words he said, for the cannon’s roar; But my heart grew cold with a deadly fear,— O God! I had heard that voice before!
Had heard it before at our mother’s knee, When we lisped the words of our evening prayer! My brother! would I had died for thee,— This burden is more than my soul can bear!
I pressed my lips to his death-cold cheek, And begged him to show me by word or sign, That he knew and forgave me; he could not speak, But he nestled his poor cold face to mine.
The blood flowed fast from my wounded side, And then for a while I forgot my pain, And over the lakelet we seemed to glide In our little boat, two boys again.
And then, in my dream, we stood alone On a forest path where the shadows fell; And I heard again the tremulous tone And the tender words of his last farewell.
But that parting was years, long years ago, He wandered away to a foreign land; And our dear old mother will never know That he died to-night by his brother’s hand.
The soldiers who buried the dead away Disturbed not the clasp of that last embrace, But laid them to sleep till the judgment day, Heart folded to heart, and face to face.

Driving Home the Cows

DRIVING HOME THE COWS.

By KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.

O
Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass, He turned them into the river-lane; One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow bars again.
Under the willows, and over the hill, He patiently followed their sober pace; The merry whistle for once was still, And something shadowed the sunny face.
Only a boy! and his father had said He never could let his youngest go; Two already were lying dead Under the feet of the trampling foe.
But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun, And stealthily followed the foot-path damp.
Across the clover and through the wheat, With resolute heart and purpose grim, Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, And the blind bat’s flitting startled him.
Thrice since then had the lanes been white, And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom; And now when the cows came back at night, The feeble father drove them home.
For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain; And the old man’s tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son’s again.
The summer day grew cold and late, He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming, one by one,—
Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind; Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,— But who was it following close behind?
Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue; And worn and pale from the crisping hair Looked out a face that the father knew.
For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, And yield their dead unto life again; And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn In golden glory at last may wane.
The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb; And under the silent evening skies, Together they followed the cattle home.
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After All

AFTER ALL.

By WILLIAM WINTER

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The apples are ripe in the orchard, The work of the reaper is done, And the golden woodlands redden In the blood of the dying sun.
At the cottage door the grandsire Sits pale in his easy-chair, While the gentle wind of twilight Plays with his silver hair.
A woman is kneeling beside him; A fair young head is pressed, In the first wild passion of sorrow, Against his agéd breast.
And far from over the distance The faltering echoes come Of the flying blast of trumpet And the rattling roll of the drum.
And the grandsire speaks in a whisper: “The end, no man can see; But we gave him to his country, And we give our prayers to thee.”
The violets star the meadows, The rosebuds fringe the door, And over the grassy orchard The pink-white blossoms pour.
But the grandsire’s chair is empty, The cottage is dark and still; There’s a nameless grave in the battle-field, And a new one under the hill.
And a pallid, tearless woman By the cold hearth sits alone, And the old clock in the corner Ticks on with a steady drone.

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“HE’LL SEE IT WHEN HE WAKES.”

By FRANK LEE.

[In “Bugle Echoes” Mr. Francis F. Browne introduces this poem with the following note: “In one of the battles in Virginia, a gallant young Mississippian had fallen, and at night, just before burying him, there came a letter from his betrothed. One of the burial group took the letter and laid it upon the breast of the dead soldier, with the words: ‘Bury it with him. He’ll see it when he wakes.’”—Editor.]

A
Amid the clouds of battle-smoke The sun had died away, And where the storm of battle broke A thousand warriors lay. A band of friends upon the field Stood round a youthful form Who, when the war-cloud’s thunder pealed, Had perished in the storm. Upon his forehead, on his hair, The coming moonlight breaks, And each dear brother standing there A tender farewell takes.
But ere they laid him in his home There came a comrade near, And gave a token that had come From her the dead held dear. A moment’s doubt upon them pressed, Then one the letter takes, And lays it low upon his breast— “He’ll see it when he wakes.” O thou who dost in sorrow wait, Whose heart with anguish breaks, Though thy dear message came too late, “He’ll see it when he wakes.”
No more amid the fiery storm Shall his strong arm be seen; No more his young and manly form Tread Mississippi’s green; And e’en thy tender words of love— The words affection speaks— Came all too late; but oh! thy love “Will see them when he wakes.” No jars disturb his gentle rest, No noise his slumber breaks, But thy words sleep upon his breast— “He’ll see them when he wakes.”
[Southern.]

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THE RÉVEILLE.

By BRET HARTE.

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Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands, And of arméd men the hum; Lo! a nation’s hosts have gathered Round the quick-alarming drum— Saying: “Come, Freemen, come! Ere your heritage be wasted,” said the quick-alarming drum.
“Let me of my heart take counsel: War is not of life the sum; Who shall stay and reap the harvest When the autumn days shall come?” But the drum Echoed: “Come! Death shall reap the braver harvest,” said the solemn-sounding drum.
“But when won the coming battle, What of profit springs therefrom? What if conquest, subjugation, Even greater ills become?” But the drum Answered: “Come! You must do the sum to prove it,” said the Yankee-answering drum.
“What if, ’mid the cannon’s thunder, Whistling shot and bursting bomb, When my brothers fall around me, Should my heart grow cold and numb?” But the drum Answered: “Come! Better there in death united than in life a recreant—Come!”
Thus they answered—hoping, fearing, Some in faith and doubting some, Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming, Said: “My chosen people, come!” Then the drum, Lo! was dumb; For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered: “Lord, we come!”

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RÉVEILLE.

By MICHAEL O’CONNOR.

[The author of this poem was a sergeant in the 140th regiment of New York volunteers, who died at the age of 25 years, at Potomac Station, Va., December 28, 1862.—Editor.]

T
The morning is cheery, my boys, arouse! The dew shines bright on the chestnut boughs, And the sleepy mist on the river lies, Though the east is flushing with crimson dyes. Awake! awake! awake! O’er field and wood and brake, With glories newly born, Comes on the blushing morn. Awake! awake!
You have dreamed of your homes and friends all night; You have basked in your sweethearts’ smiles so bright; Come, part with them all for a while again,— Be lovers in dreams; when awake, be men, Turn out! turn out! turn out! You have dreamed full long, I know. Turn out! turn out! turn out! The east is all aglow. Turn out! turn out!
From every valley and hill they come The clamoring voices of fife and drum; And out in the fresh, cool morning air The soldiers are swarming everywhere. Fall in! fall in! fall in! Every man in his place Fall in! fall in! fall in! Each with a cheerful face. Fall in! fall in!
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THE WHITE ROSE.

By JOSEPH O’CONNOR.

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It is a withered rose, That like a rose’s corpse, full dry and wan, Finds here its last repose, Its lustre dulled, its form and softness crushed, The tender life with which its petals flushed, And all its soul of subtle fragrance gone; A primal rose that bloomed Among the kindling brands, as white as frost, Where Zillah stood undoomed, Or from Mahomet’s forehead fluttered fair To earth, when Al Borak cleft through the air In flight to heaven, might leave so frail a ghost.
The poet moralist Has ever taken sombre joy to sing Upon a theme so trist, And write in dust of roses lessons grim— That pleasures must be snatched ere they grow dim, For germs of death in folds of beauty cling;
That since the roses die, No mortal loveliness may long endure; No joy outlast a sigh; No passion’s thrill, no labor’s work remain Beyond a season; that Decay doth reign;— Though in the tyrant’s very riot, sure, Some pledge of hope is found That all the universe is not a grave And life sits somewhere crowned. Not Tasso’s soft persuasion unto sin I find, dear rose, thy withered leaves within, Nor any precept Epicurus gave; To me thou dost not breathe A thought of festivals, or memory Of woven, wine-dipped wreath, Or kisses on ripe lips, or fond regret For bounds by time to fleeting pleasures set, Or wish to bring thy beauty back to thee.
To kiss thy leaves I bend, And lo! The crash of cannon fills mine ears; I see the banners blend Into the battle smoke; and the long lines Of marching men where glint of bayonet shines Through clouds of dust; the hopes, the hates, the fears Of old thrill through my heart; Again the myriad ghosts of the great war From out their cerements start; Again the nation in the contest strains Its every nerve; again the deep refrains Of groan and cheer break on us from afar!
What mystery of power To fill the mind with visions such as these Lies in this scentless flower? ’Tis three and twenty years this very June, Since first it opened to the southern noon And swung in languor to a southern breeze; And on the stalwart breast Of one that wore the blue, while yet in bloom, ’Twas set in gallant jest; In the long march’s dust it drooped its head And in the smoke of Gettysburg lay dead, With many a life more precious finding doom.
Beside a farmer’s home In shade and shine this rose of battle grew, What time the rolling drum Announced the crisis of the war at hand, As Meade pressed swiftly north through Maryland, And ever closer to Lee’s columns drew; On that grim, weary march Rain seldom fell; the June sun fiercely glowed And seemed all things to parch; The winds grew still, nor in their motion swung The dust that round the lithe battalions clung For miles, on many a winding country road.
The women stood in groups And watched with tear-wet eyes and smiling lips The marching of the troops; The smiles came at the sight of manhood stern Moving to sacrifice with unconcern; The tears were for the battle’s drear eclipse That was so soon to fall On many a home where then the sunshine slept— The shadow of a pall; And though their hopes went with the stripes and stars, Or lingered far away with stars and bars, Yet they were women still—and smiled and wept!
And where this rosebud lush Had blossomed into innocence and peace Upon its modest bush, A column halted for a rest at noon And the tired soldiers, glad of such a boon, Flung knapsacks off, stacked arms, and took their ease.
And there to one that quaffed From the deep farmhouse well, with careless zest, A luscious draught, A fair girl said, scorn lurking round her mouth: “Dare these men meet the veterans of the South?” Half earnestly she spoke, and half in jest. The soldier’s serious eyes An instant flashed, and then grew soft again, While yet the quick surprise Was flushing his bronzed cheek; but he was born To reverence womanhood, and not to scorn; And so disdained to wound her with disdain. He spoke with quiet grace In even tones, a smile both quaint and grave Upon his firm, strong face: “To wear in the next battle give to me A rose,” he said, “and then the rose will see!” In sobered mood she plucked this flower and gave.
It seems another age When things like these were done; the rose’s bloom He took as battle gage, And with his laughing comrades went his way, Well knowing that the columns wide astray Were fast converging for the day of doom!
O streams of rippling steel That northward flowed with current ever true! In thought we watched you wheel Among the hills, a winding to and fro, The weapons sparkling o’er the men below Like glancing foam above the waves of blue! We knew your end and source, And that your torrents, crowned with portents dire, Would keep their onward course Till in the battle’s plunge, with thunder’s roar, And scorching flames, your cleansing tides should pour Abroad, and save the nation as by fire!
The first day of July, Just north of Gettysburg, the fight began Whose memory will not die. There lay along the outskirts of a wood A regiment busy in the work of blood; And he that wore the rose watched every man, Alert, unvexed, intense, And kept the firing cool, and fierce, and fast; In front in column dense Stern Southern valor stormed, and would not flinch, Nor be denied, yet could not win an inch— Till far outflanked our lines gave way at last.
Behind the frightened town, On Cemetery Hill the rout was stayed; And there the men lay down And slept content among the graves that night; And there this pallid rose, in soft moonlight, Upon its wearer’s heaving bosom swayed. The gathering armies clashed, And on the circling hills the second day, Incessant cannon crashed; And shot and shell tore up each reverent mound, And flung the tombstones’ shattered fragments round— Poor rose, that heard the din of such a fray!
On the third day, behold! It saw the climax of the battle come; When calm, and stern, and bold The great Virginians charged and could not win, Though manhood’s flower, as they have ever been In field, and hall, and by the hearth of home. How proud their column moved, Up the long slope of death with stubborn tread, Obeying him they loved! And still against the storm of fire that scourged Supporting squadrons backward as it surged, How fierce they held their way unwearièd! Mayhap with other foes They might have won; but ever slow to yield And ever prompt to close Were Hancock’s men; and the Virginian shaft That pierced our lines was shattered, head and haft, Within the wound!—And Lee had lost the field.
Amid the eddied smoke, The groans of dying men, and the glad cheer Of victory that broke From hill to hill, this thing of beauty died; And he that wore and had forgot it, sighed And thought of it again as something dear; So from his breast he took The rose and sent it home to have it set Within this simple book, The favorite of a girl he loved and lost, And ’mid the leaves it lingers like a ghost— Though they be gone, the flower abideth yet!
And often when I gaze Into its folds and see these visions fair, Mine eyes are filled with haze Of tears for him that wore it, true and brave; Almost I turn to fling it on his grave Beside the little flag that flutters there!— Then sigh for power to close Within the amber clear of poetry This pale and withered rose That else must pass and crumble into dust And squander in some wild and windy gust The essence I would set in melody— The feelings of the time When first it bloomed; the deeds of sacrifice, The thoughts and acts sublime, The scenes of battle with their woe and scaith, The courtesy and courage, love and faith— That I can read within it with mine eyes!