THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

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THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

By FRANCIS MILES FINCH.

[Suggested by the fact that the women of Columbus, Miss., on their decoration day strewed flowers, with impartial hands, upon the graves of northern and southern soldiers.—Editor.]

By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of the iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the one, the Blue; Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat: All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the laurel, the Blue; Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours, The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers, Alike for the friends and the foe; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the roses, the Blue; Under the lilies, the Gray.

So, with an equal splendor, The morning sun-rays fall, With a touch impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Broidered with gold, the Blue, Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain, With an equal murmur falleth, The cooling drip of the rain; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Wet with the rain, the Blue; Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done; In the storm of the years that are fading, No braver battle was won; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day, Under the blossoms, the Blue; Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever, When they laurel the graves of our dead. Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Love and tears for the Blue; Tears and love for the Gray.

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READY.

By PHOEBE CARY.

Loaded with gallant soldiers, A boat shot in to the land, And lay at the right of Rodman’s Point, With her keel upon the sand.

Lightly, gayly, they came to shore, And never a man afraid; When sudden the enemy opened fire From his deadly ambuscade.

Each man fell flat on the bottom Of the boat; and the captain said: “If we lie here, we all are captured’ And the first who moves is dead!”

Then out spoke a negro sailor, No slavish soul had he: “Somebody’s got to die, boys, And it might as well be me!”

Firmly he rose, and fearlessly Stepped out into the tide; He pushed the vessel safely off, Then fell across her side:

Fell, pierced by a dozen bullets, As the boat swung clear and free; But there wasn’t a man of them there that day Who was fitter to die than he!

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A GEORGIA VOLUNTEER.

By MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND.

Far up the lonely mountain-side My wandering footsteps led; The moss lay thick beneath my feet, The pine sighed overhead. The trace of a dismantled fort Lay in the forest nave, And in the shadow near my path I saw a soldier’s grave.

The bramble wrestled with the weed Upon the lowly mound, The simple head-board, rudely writ, Had rotted to the ground; I raised it with a reverent hand, From dust its words to clear; But time had blotted all but these: “A Georgia Volunteer.”

I saw the toad and scaly snake From tangled covert start, And hide themselves among the weeds Above the dead man’s heart; But undisturbed, in sleep profound, Unheeding, there he lay; His coffin but the mountain soil, His shroud, Confederate gray.

I heard the Shenandoah roll Along the vale below, I saw the Alleghanies rise Toward the realms of snow. The “Valley Campaign” rose to mind— Its leader’s name—and then I knew the sleeper had been one Of Stonewall Jackson’s men.

Yet whence he came, what lip shall say— Whose tongue will ever tell What desolated hearths and hearts Have been because he fell? What sad-eyed maiden braids her hair— Her hair which he held dear? One lock of which, perchance lies with The Georgia Volunteer!

What mother, with long-watching eyes And white lips cold and dumb, Waits with appalling patience for Her darling boy to come? Her boy! whose mountain grave swells up But one of many a scar Cut on the face of our fair land By gory-handed war.

What fights he fought, what wounds he wore, Are all unknown to fame; Remember, on his lonely grave There is not even a name! That he fought well and bravely too, And held his country dear, We know, else he had never been A Georgia Volunteer.

He sleeps—what need to question now If he were wrong or right? He knows, e’er this, whose cause was just In God the Father’s sight. He wields no warlike weapons now, Returns no foeman’s thrust; Who but a coward would revile An honest soldier’s dust?

Roll, Shenandoah, proudly roll Adown thy rocky glen; Above thee lies the grave of one Of Stonewall Jackson’s men. Beneath the cedar and the pine, In solitude austere, Unknown, unnamed, forgotten, lies A Georgia Volunteer.

[Southern.]

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“HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY?”

By BRET HARTE.

[There is nothing in the history of the Civil War worthier of celebration in verse, or more to be honored in the remembrance, than the organization and work of the United States Sanitary Commission. When the conditions created by the stress of the war became apparent, the compassion of kindly men and women in the North was deeply stirred by the thought that there was suffering among the soldiers which the government could not relieve, and that there were wants which could not be supplied by military agencies. The generous desire to minister to these wants and to relieve this suffering was quickly organized into action with that business-like sagacity which distinguishes the American character. The Sanitary Commission was formed as the agent and almoner of the popular generosity. It was supported entirely by voluntary contributions. It was as thoroughly organized as the army commissariat itself, and wherever there was a comfort needed, or a wounded or sick man to be cared for, its supply wagons, its appliances, and its trained nurses were found. The affectionate gratitude of the troops toward the beneficent association is reflected in this poem.—Editor.]

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“HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY?”

Down the picket-guarded lane Rolled the comfort-laden wain, Cheered by shouts that shook the plain, Soldier-like and merry: Phrases such as camps may teach, Sabre-cuts of Saxon speech, Such as “Bully!” “Them’s the peach!” “Wade in, Sanitary!”

Right and left the caissons drew As the car went lumbering through, Quick succeeding in review Squadrons military; Sunburnt men with beards like frieze, Smooth-faced boys, and cries like these: “U. S. San. Com.” “That’s the cheese!” “Pass in, Sanitary!”

In such cheer it struggled on Till the battle front was won; Then the car, its journey done, Lo! was stationary; And where bullets whistling fly Came the sadder, fainter cry: “Help us, brothers, ere we die!— Save us, Sanitary!”

Such the work. The phantom flies, Wrapped in battle-clouds that rise; But the brave—whose dying eyes, Veiled and visionary, See the jasper gates swung wide, See the parted throng outside— Hears the voice to those who ride: “Pass in, Sanitary!”

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THE MEN.

By MAURICE BELL.

In the dusk of the forest shade A sallow and dusty group reclined; Gallops a horseman up the glade— “Where will I your leader find? Tidings I bring from the morning’s scout— I’ve borne them o’er mound and moor and fen.” “Well, sir, stay not hereabout, Here are only a few of ‘the men.’

“Here no collar has bar or star, No rich lacing adorns the sleeve; Further on our officers are, Let them your report receive. Higher up on the hill up there, Overlooking this shady glen, There are their quarters—don’t stop here, We are only some of ‘the men.’

“Yet stay, courier, if you bear Tidings that a fight is near; Tell them we’re ready, and that where They wish us to be we’ll soon appear; Tell them only to let us know Where to form our ranks and when; And we’ll teach the vaunting foe That they’ve met with some of ‘the men.’

“We’re the men, though our clothes are worn— We’re the men, though we wear no lace— We’re the men, who the foe have torn, And scattered their ranks in dire disgrace— We’re the men who have triumphed before— We’re the men who will triumph again; For the dust and the smoke and the cannon’s roar, And the clashing bayonets—‘we’re the men.’

“Ye who sneer at the battle-scars, Of garments faded and soiled and bare, Yet who have for the ‘stars and bars’ Praise and homage and dainty fare; Mock the wearers and pass them on, Refuse them kindly word—and then Know if your freedom is ever won By human agents—these are the men!”

[Southern.]

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THE GUERILLAS.

By S. TEACKLE WALLIS.

Awake! and to horse my brothers, For the dawn is glimmering gray, And hark! in the crackling brushwood, There are feet that tread this way.

“Who cometh?” “A friend.” “What tidings?“ “O God! I sicken to tell, For the earth seems earth no longer, And its sights are the sights of hell.

“There’s rapine and fire and slaughter, From the mountain down to the shore, There’s blood on the trampled harvest, And blood on the homestead floor.

“From the far-off conquered cities, Comes the voice of a stifled wail, And the shrieks and moans of the homeless Ring like the dirge of a gale.

“I have seen from the smoking village, Our mothers and daughters fly, I’ve seen where the little children, Sank down in the furrows to die.

“On the banks of the battle-stained river, I stood as the moonlight shone, And it glared on the face of my brother, As the sad wave swept him on.

“Where my home was glad, are ashes, And horror and shame had been there, For I found on the fallen lintel, This tress of my wife’s torn hair.

“They are turning the slave upon us, And with more than the fiend’s worst art. Have uncovered the fires of the savage, That slept in his untaught heart.

“The ties to our hearts that bound him, They have rent with curses away, And madden him in their madness To be almost as brutal as they.

“With halter and torch and Bible, And hymns to the sound of the drum, They preach the gospel of murder, And pray for lust’s kingdom to come.

“To saddle! my brothers! to saddle! Look up to the rising sun, And ask of the God who shines there, Whether deeds like these shall be done.

“Whither the vandal cometh, Press home to his heart with your steel, And where’er at his bosom ye cannot, Like the serpent, go strike at his heel.

“Through thicket and wood go hunt him, Creep up to his camp-fire side, And let ten of his corpses blacken, Where one of our brothers hath died.

“In his fainting footsore marches, In his flight from the stricken fray, In the snare of the lonely ambush, The debts that we owe him, pay.

“In God’s hands alone is vengeance, But he strikes with the hands of men, And his blight would wither our manhood, If we smote not the smiter again.

“By the graves where our fathers slumber, By the shrines where our mothers prayed, By our homes and hopes of freedom, Let every man swear by his blade.—

“That he will not sheathe nor stay it, Till from point to hilt it glow, With the flush of Almighty justice, In the blood of the cruel foe.”

They swore; and the answering sunlight Leapt from their lifted swords, And the hate in their hearts made echo, To the wrath of their burning words.

[Southern.]

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WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER.

[There is nothing in this sentimental song that enables one to read the riddle of its remarkable popularity during the Civil War. It has no poetic merit; its rhythm is commonplace, and the tune to which it was sung was of the flimsiest musical structure, without even a trick of melody to commend it. Yet the song was more frequently sung, on both sides, than any other, the Southern soldiers inserting “gray” for “blue” in the sixth line of the first stanza, with cheerful recklessness of the effect upon the rhyme. The thing was heard in every camp every day and many times every day. Men chanted it on the march, and women sang it to piano accompaniment in all houses. A song which so strongly appealed to two great armies and to an entire people is worthy of a place in all collections of war poetry, even though criticism is baffled in the attempt to discover the reason of its popularity.—Editor.]

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WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER.

Dearest love, do you remember When we last did meet, How you told me that you loved me Kneeling at my feet? Oh, how proud you stood before me In your suit of blue, When you vowed to me and country Ever to be true. Chorus.—Weeping, sad and lonely, Hopes and fears, how vain; Yet praying When this cruel war is over, Praying that we meet again.

When the summer breeze is sighing Mournfully along, Or when autumn leaves are falling, Sadly breathes the song. Oft in dreams I see thee lying On the battle plain, Lonely, wounded, even dying, Calling, but in vain. Chorus.—Weeping, sad, etc.

If, amid the din of battle, Nobly you should fall, Far away from those who love you, None to hear you call, Who would whisper words of comfort? Who would soothe your pain? Ah, the many cruel fancies Ever in my brain! Chorus.—Weeping, sad, etc.

But our country called you, darling, Angels cheer your way! While our nation’s sons are fighting, We can only pray. Nobly strike for God and country, Let all nations see How we love the starry banner, Emblem of the free. Chorus.—Weeping, sad, etc.

Cavalry Song

CAVALRY Song

By EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

Our good steeds snuff the evening air, Our pulses with their purpose tingle; The foeman’s fires are twinkling there; He leaps to hear our sabres jingle! Halt! Each carbine sends its whizzing ball; Now, cling! clang! forward all, Into the fight!

Dash on beneath the smoking dome; Through level lightnings gallop nearer! One look to heaven! No thoughts of home: The guidons that we bear are dearer. Charge! Cling! clang! forward all, Heaven help those whose horses fall! Cut left and right!

They flee before our fierce attack! They fall! they spread in broken surges! Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, And leave the foeman to his dirges. Wheel! The bugles sound the swift recall; Cling! clang! backward all! Home, and good-night!

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CAVALRY SONG.

By ROSSITER W. RAYMOND.

Our bugles sound gayly. To horse and away! And over the mountains breaks the day; Then ho! brothers, ho! for the ride or the fight, There are deeds to be done ere we slumber to-night! And whether we fight or whether we fall By sabre-stroke or rifle-ball, The hearts of the free will remember us yet, And our country, our country will never forget!

Then mount and away! let the coward delight To be lazy all day and safe all night; Our joy is a charger, flecked with foam, And the earth is our bed and the saddle our home; And whether we fight, etc.

See yonder the ranks of the traitorous foe, And bright in the sunshine bayonets glow! Breathe a prayer, but no sigh; think for what you would fight; Then charge! with a will, boys, and God for the right! And whether we fight, etc.

We have gathered again the red laurels of war; We have followed the traitors fast and far; But some who rose gayly this morn with the sun Lie bleeding and pale on the field they have won! But whether we fight, etc.

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THE CAVALRY CHARGE.

By BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR.

Hark! the rattling roll of the musketeers, And the ruffled drums, and the rallying cheers, And the rifles burn with a keen desire Like the crackling whips of a hemlock fire, And the singing shot and the shrieking shell And the splintered fire on the shattered hell, And the great white breaths of the cannon smoke As the growling guns by batteries spoke; And the ragged gaps in the walls of blue Where the iron surge rolled heavily through, That the Colonel builds with a breath again As he cleaves the din with his “Close up, men!” And the groan torn out from the blackened lips, And the prayer doled slow with the crimsoned drips, And the beaming look in the dying eye As under the cloud the stars go by, “But his soul marched on!” the Captain said, For the Boy in Blue can never be dead!

And the troopers sit in their saddles all Like statues carved in an ancient hall, And they watch the whirl from their breathless ranks, And their spurs are close to the horses’ flanks, And the fingers work of the sabre hand— Oh, to bid them live, and to make them grand! And the bugle sounds to the charge at last, And away they plunge, and the front is passed! And the jackets blue grow red as they ride, And the scabbards too, that clank by their side, And the dead soldiers deaden the strokes iron-shod As they gallop right on o’er the plashy red sod— Right into the cloud all spectral and dim, Right up to the guns black-throated and grim, Right down on the hedges bordered with steel, Right through the dense columns—then “Right about wheel!” Hurrah! a new swath through the harvest again! Hurrah for the Flag! To the battle, Amen!

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THE CAVALRY CHARGE.

By FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE.

With bray of the trumpet And roll of the drum, And keen ring of bugle, The cavalry come. Sharp clank the steel scabbards, The bridle-chains ring, And foam from red nostrils The wild chargers fling.

Tramp! tramp! o’er the greensward That quivers below, Scarce held by the curb-bit The fierce horses go! And the grim-visaged colonel, With ear-rending shout, Peals forth to the squadrons The order: “Trot out!”

One hand on the sabre, And one on the rein, The troopers move forward In line on the plain. As rings the word “Gallop!” The steel scabbards clank, And each rowel is pressed To a horse’s hot flank: And swift is their rush As the wild torrent’s flow, When it pours from the crag On the valley below.

“Charge!” thunders the leader: Like shaft from the bow Each mad horse is hurled On the wavering foe. A thousand bright sabres Are gleaming in air: A thousand dark horses Are dashed on the square. Resistless and reckless Of aught may betide, Like demons, not mortals, The wild troopers ride. Cut right! and cut left!— For the parry who needs? The bayonets shiver Like wind-scattered reeds.

Vain—vain the red volley That bursts from the square,— The random-shot bullets Are wasted in air. Triumphant, remorseless, Unerring as death,— No sabre that’s stainless Returns to its sheath.

The wounds that are dealt By that murderous steel Will never yield case For the surgeon to heal. Hurrah! they are broken— Hurrah! boys, they fly! None linger save those Who but linger to die.

Rein up your hot horses And call in your men,— The trumpet sounds “Rally To colors!” again. Some saddles are empty, Some comrades are slain, And some noble horses Lie stark on the plain; But war’s a chance game, boys, And weeping is vain.

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ROLL-CALL.

By N. G. SHEPHERD.

“Corporal Green!” the Orderly cried; “Here!” was the answer, loud and clear, From the lips of the soldier who stood near,— And “Here!” was the word the next replied.

“Cyrus Drew!”—then a silence fell: This time no answer followed the call; Only his rear-man had seen him fall: Killed or wounded—he could not tell.

There they stood in the failing light, These men of battle, with grave, dark looks, As plain to be read as open books, While slowly gathered the shades of night.

The fern on the hill-sides was splashed with blood, And down in the corn where the poppies grew Were redder stains than the poppies knew; And crimson-dyed was the river’s flood.

For the foe had crossed from the other side That day, in the face of a murderous fire That swept them down in its terrible ire, And their life-blood went to color the tide.

“Herbert Kline!” At the call there came Two stalwart soldiers into the line, Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

“Ezra Kerr!”—and a voice answered, “Here!” “Hiram Kerr!”—but no man replied. They were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed, And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

“Ephraim Deane!”—then a soldier spoke: “Deane carried our regiment’s colors,” he said; “Where our ensign was shot I left him dead, Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

“Close to the road-side his body lies; I paused a moment and gave him a drink; He murmured his mother’s name, I think, And Death came with it, and closed his eyes.”

’Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear,— For that company’s roll, when called at night, Of a hundred men who went into the fight, Numbered but twenty that answered “Here!”

[Southern.]

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READING THE LIST.

“Is there any news of the war?” she said. “Only a list of the wounded and dead,” Was the man’s reply, Without lifting his eye To the face of the woman standing by. “’Tis the very thing I want,” she said; “Read me a list of the wounded and dead.” He read the list—’twas a sad array Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray.

In the very midst, was a pause to tell Of a gallant youth who fought so well That his comrades asked: “Who is he, pray?” “The only son of the Widow Gray,” Was the proud reply Of his captain nigh— What ails the woman standing near? Her face has the ashen hue of fear!

“Well, well, read on; is he wounded? Quick! O God! but my heart is sorrow-sick! Is he wounded?” “No; he fell, they say, Killed outright on that fatal day!” But see, the woman has swooned away!

Sadly she opened her eyes to the light; Slowly recalled the events of the fight; Faintly she murmured: “Killed outright! It has cost me the life of my only son; But the battle is fought, and the victory won; The will of the Lord, let it be done!”

God pity the cheerless Widow Gray, And send from the halls of eternal day The light of his peace to illumine her way.

[Southern.]

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