w 
 
 
 " »!iA>i*. -^ 
 
 ■*-o< 
 
 
 
 
 *"■'*. .■ 
 
 
 
 
 
• c-C'^^J^.tv'^ . o 
 
 
 0^ :^^^: -ov* 
 
 
 
 ,' / V \ 
 
 
 
 
 % 
 
BALLADS OF THE ¥AE, 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE WHITFIELD HEWES. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 Carleton, Publisher, 130 Grand St, 
 
 (late RUDD & CARLETON.) 
 MDCCCLXII. 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1862, by 
 
 GEORGE WHITFIELD HEWES, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District of 
 
 New York. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PREFACE ...... 
 
 DEDICATION ...... 
 
 THE BALLAD OF EVERARD GRAY 
 THE BIG AVHISKY PUNCH 
 
 to a foundling 
 
 the soldier op the third . . • 
 
 to edmund ruffin . 
 
 our rifle and bayonet 
 
 Philip's victory over phillis 
 
 a chorus from the " petrel " 
 
 sonnet on war .... 
 
 a brother in the rebel army . 
 
 QUERIES .... . . 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LIEUTENANT COLONEL 
 THE LOVE OF THE WOUNDED ZOUAVE 
 
 SONG THE WINTER 's HOWLING ROUND 
 
 SONNET TO THE NAMELESS ONES . 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF A SENATOR SOLDIER 
 TO THE HERO OF MISSOURI 
 
 US 
 
 Faqe 
 
 7 
 
 . 11 
 
 13 
 
 . 32 
 37 
 
 . 40 
 46 
 
 . 48 
 
 52 
 . 58 
 
 59 
 . 60 
 
 62 
 . 63 
 
 75 
 . 81 
 
 82 
 . 83 
 
 84 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 THE SENTINEL AND I 85 
 
 SONNET ON A PEBBLE 91 
 
 ODE TO THE WAILING DOGS .... 92 
 
 WHAT OUR AVILLIE WOULD DO . . . 100 
 
 THE UNITED STATES BLACKSMITH SHOP . . 102 
 
 THE soldier's FUNERAL . . . 105 
 
 BEN bront's retribution . . . 107 
 
 THE SOLDIER LOVEr's RETURN . . . 115 
 
 THE SOLDIER LOVEr's PARTING . . 117 
 
 JOY TO THE DEAD . . . . . . 118 
 
 A LAMENT FROM FORT LAFAYETTE . . .122 
 
 THE GRAVE DIGGER OF MANASSAS . . 124 
 
 ADDRESS TO A REBEL TOE NAIL . . . 129 
 
 A PICTURE OF WAR 132 
 
 LINES ON THE PROSPECT OF A WAR WITH ENG- 
 LAND 140 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Busy times make busy men ; if the bee would 
 gather honey — the bee must be up and doing ; — the 
 river too, that would be the long and mighty, must 
 accept all sizes and qualities of tributaries ; for, hav- 
 ing no ability either to refuse or choose, it must 
 needs roll on, while every rivulet claims the right 
 of companionship ; and so, stirred by the times, and 
 being unable to restrain my fticulties when there 
 was such volumes of hidden poetry in the many 
 scenes now transpiring, I on August last, determin- 
 ed to do what I could to help along the great work 
 of calhng: back the miso^uided and seceded brothers 
 to the mighty family of States ; to run my little 
 voice in with the rolling thunder of an indignant 
 people. 
 
 It is with no common solicitude that I venture 
 before the public as an author, knoAving as I do 
 these poems to be the hard work of hours snatched 
 from the taxations and relaxations of a mentally 
 exhaustive profession ; and it has been a doubt with 
 me, whether they do not bear the marks of haste 
 or feebleness, and as a consequence have been stamp- 
 ed with tameness ; if such should be the feet, I beg 
 the Public's pardon, and only promise to try and 
 do better in future, or not to do at all. 
 
VUl PREFACE. 
 
 Besides, we live in an uncommon time ; uncom- 
 mon events and feelings are to be celebrated, and 
 here perhaps I can dovetail the thought, that an un- 
 common book would not be entirely out of place — 
 at least I am determined to put on the front of bold- 
 ness, and with an assumed " eye of Mars" show my 
 face and my book together, compelling the public to 
 beat me down into the mire (if sink I must) before 
 I gracefully and tamely sink of my own weight ; 
 and in expanding this subject I will say, that if the 
 public will hear me before they dismiss me, it will 
 be as much as this attempt will justify, or my own 
 ambition expect. 
 
 If it will be any extenuation of my presumption, 
 to say that these j^oems were the production of an 
 intense love of my country, an ardent hope that she 
 may soon be restored to peace, and a sincere wish 
 to extol the heroic deeds, extend the fame, and en- 
 wreath the memories of the soldiers Avho have 
 fought and died for her, then indeed I am pardona- 
 ble ; for never had man a greater desire for the tri- 
 umph of a cause, and to do honor to its votaries, 
 than I have for the success of my country's rights, 
 and her patriotic defenders. Let this be my pallia- 
 tion or my reward, just as the public censures or ap- 
 plauds. 
 
 Some may complain that these poems are not suf- 
 ficiently warlike and descriptive in their character; 
 that the great scenes of the present contest should 
 so inspire the poet, that words of living flame 
 should gush from his pen, even as the waters flowed 
 from the great rock of Horeb, when smote by the 
 
PREFACE. IX 
 
 hand of Moses. To such I must say, Firstly, that I 
 have not the hajDpiness to be a Moses; Secondly, 
 there happens to be no thirsty multitude eager to 
 sip at the bubbling fountain of my inkstand ; and 
 Thirdly, that I was unable, owing to my business 
 arrangements, to visit any of the more prominent 
 points of interest, by which I could fill my soul 
 with the stirring scenes and sights of the Avar. I 
 was compelled therefore to found my work upon in- 
 cidents gleaned from the newspapers, or find in my 
 imagination the foundation I so much needed and 
 desired. I have chosen to blend the two as harmo- 
 niously as possible, but never have I perverted a 
 fact. To create a fiction from a fact, is a work of 
 the imagination, but, to coin a fiction and give it 
 tacitly forth as a fact, is not only a deceit, but a 
 crime, and deserving of the severest censure from 
 the reading public. Imagination may assist reality 
 by the vivid description of a great action ; but it 
 should never be allowed to control or pervert the 
 facts belonging to it. 
 
 I do not herald these Poems as " the hasty occu- 
 pation of idle moments, or " the result of an eve- 
 ning's amusement," they are the work of much la- 
 bor and much love, and I do not care if the people 
 know it. I am unwilling to cast a reflection on the 
 taste of a reader by ofiering him a book "hastily 
 prepared," and vainly blazoned to the public as a 
 "thing easily done," when the reader's time could 
 be more usefully employed in examining books of 
 recognized ability. I may be presumptuous in bring- 
 ing out my book, but I am neither impertinent nor 
 1* 
 
X PEEFACE. 
 
 wilful. Poetry is not a mine that any one may shaft 
 and produce treasure, but rather a diamond sea in 
 which many divers are unsuccessful ; and if I fail 
 this time in grasping the bright diamond of renown^ 
 I shall but dive the deeper, and search the sea-clad 
 rocks the longer, until the crystal gem rewards my 
 persevering, but somewhat impatient industry. 
 
 But the critics ! let me see ! Is it well to address 
 them before they see me ? I will however say, that 
 the book is theirs to handle as they please ; for I do 
 not publish as an " experiment," but as a beginning, 
 (for other works may soon be on their hands if the 
 war does not kill them and myself off, before so de- 
 sirable a result is consummated.) Nor do I wish to 
 screen its defects behind a curtain of self inflicted, 
 derogating excuses in order to disarm them of any 
 severity they might choose to exercise. In my ef- 
 forts to be eloquent, I may have miscalculated my 
 ability ; in my desire to exhibit and increase patriot- 
 ism, I may have overstepped the bounds of reason, 
 and produced nothing but illy timed and diseased 
 passion, but I do not think I have done so; and of 
 this I am certain, that I am sincere in my anxiety 
 to reverence sufficiently, and applaud discreetly, the 
 names and deeds of my fellow countrymen, and, in 
 my desire to sing their sacrificing love of principles, 
 to an admiring and appreciating posterity. 
 
 Encouraged by none, yet hoping this little book 
 may attain some of the puii:)Oses for which it is put 
 forth, the Author remains 
 
 The Public's humble servant, 
 
 G. W. H. 
 
TO 
 
 THE ]M[em:oiiy of 
 
 THOSE HEROES OF THIS WAR 
 
 WHO HAVE FOUND A GRAVE IN THE TORN BOSOM OF THEIR COUNTRY, 
 
 AND TO THE GALLANT SOLDIERS 
 
 WHO ARE NOW SERVING HEK, 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
BALLADS OF THE WAR, 
 
 THE BALLAD OF EVERARD GRAY. 
 
 'Twas night ; the moon In fitful rays, 
 Came gleaming the clouds between, 
 
 When through the smoothly gravelled walks 
 All shaded o'er Avith green, 
 
 I walked into a mad-house near, 
 And gazed upon a scene. 
 
 The wind sighed in and out the trees 
 
 From many a boughy wreath. 
 And seemed to moan so tenderly, 
 
 It took away my breath ; 
 And struck a chord within my soul 
 
 That somehow told of death. 
 
 I gazed on the structure reared there 
 Whose massive columns blended 
 
 With the snowy white of the doorway, 
 As though they were intended 
 
 For the bridal train of beauty. 
 
 Of some Lordly mansion splendid. 
 
14 BALLADS OF THE AVAR. 
 
 And instead of the festive group 
 
 I saw but the glaring eyes, 
 Pressed hard against the barred light 
 
 That opened to the skies, 
 Whose strength the howling lunatic 
 
 Each night so vainly tries. 
 
 Instead of the rustling dresses. 
 
 The rounded cheeks which charm, 
 
 The grace of a buzzing circle, 
 I saw but the wild alarm 
 
 Of the mazy, crazy habitant. 
 And ihe long and bony arm. 
 
 And the house rose pale and stately 
 
 Whose sentry Avas the moon ; 
 And the wind that crept around it 
 
 Though howling, was a boon, 
 For compared to the screamings heard there 
 
 To a storm, it was a swoon. 
 
 Alono; throuo;h the soundino; entries 
 
 I quickly made my way. 
 For the sound I heard so drearly 
 
 Made me afraid to stay ; 
 Until on the topmost story 
 
 I heard a meek voice say, 
 
 " O, lover, lover Everard Gray ! 
 Lover so true to me. 
 
Tlii: BALLAD OF EVEKARD GRAY. 
 
 When will you come dear Everard Gray ? 
 
 Lover so good to me, 
 Oh, lover, lover Everard Gray, 
 
 When will you come to me ? 
 
 I followed the voice so closely. 
 
 In the darkness of the night, 
 That I found the cell in a minute. 
 
 With a panel to the right. 
 Which was closed with a spring — I opened. 
 
 Revealing a pitiful sight. 
 
 The ray of tlie streaming moonlight. 
 
 Glittered in fearlessly, 
 Licrhtino; the cell — for it was one, 
 
 So I could easily see. 
 But hark to the solemn chantino;s 
 
 That came from the cell to me. 
 
 '" Oh, lover, lover Everard Gray, 
 
 Lover so true to me, 
 When will you come sweet Everard Gray ? 
 
 Lover so good to me. 
 Oh, lover, lover Everard Gray, 
 
 When will you come to me ? 
 
 A pallet of heavy timbers 
 
 Was screwed against the wall. 
 And from the sides were pendant 
 
 The cliains on tlie limbs so small. 
 
16 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 A mattrass of cornhusks covered 
 Chairs and timbers and all. 
 
 But the voice and the words? ah ! truly, 
 
 How should I so forget 
 The sigh in gs and throbbings of anguish, 
 
 The wails of mild regret, 
 Of the lady chained to the pallet 
 
 With eye and hair of jet ? 
 
 Ahlpale and wofully saddened, 
 
 Sat in that gloomy place, 
 One lookino' as if she were born to 
 
 Every womanly grace, — 
 Sat passing intently up and down 
 
 Her hand upon her face. 
 
 What can she mean ? and the panel 
 
 To open still more I dare. 
 For something moved me to ponder 
 
 The cause of the downcast air, 
 Of that lovely woman sitting 
 
 With a look of keen despair. 
 
 And I gazed with an intense yearning ; 
 
 That sino-ular wailing freak 
 Made me dizzy — my eyes grew moist, 
 
 And my knees grew cold and weak ; 
 For still she rubbed with a whitened hand 
 
 A spot upon her cheek. 
 
THE BALLAD OF EVERARD GRAY. 17 
 
 Again I looked across tlie cell, 
 
 And through tlie iron bars, 
 And saw that night the heavens bright, 
 
 And saw the glistening stars. 
 Yet faintly poured that misery forth 
 
 Whose tone my spirit jars. 
 
 " O, lover, lover Everard Gray ! 
 
 Lover so true to me, 
 When will you come dear Everard Gray ? 
 
 Lover so good to me, 
 O, lover, lover Everard Gray ! 
 
 When will you come to me ? 
 
 Then she looked on her pallid hands, 
 
 And the deep blue winding veins. 
 And she looked with a languid eye 
 
 On incarcerating chains ; 
 Just as the beams of the solemn moon 
 
 Fell on her hands and chains. 
 
 " Oh God ! " she cried, and starting up 
 
 To her full woman height. 
 She glared upon the bluish ray 
 
 With horrible affright ; 
 " That moon again — Oh God ! oh God ! 
 
 Oh ! take away the light." 
 
 " Oh ! take away the vaprous light. 
 That brought me to repining. 
 
18 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 Its fangs upon my temples throb, 
 
 The thing of lizard lining ; 
 It crawls upon my dreams a-nights 
 
 And chills me with its shining." 
 
 And faster and faster moved her hand 
 
 Over her ashen face, 
 And wilder and wilder flashed her eye, 
 
 Bluer grew the place, 
 Lovely and yet more lovely seemed 
 
 Each sad, yet intense grace. 
 
 " That moon! that moonl " she deeply spake, 
 
 "On such a night as this 
 He led me fortli, and told me 
 
 Of such enduring bliss ; 
 I little thought so many chills 
 
 Were in one little kiss. 
 
 " A few sliolit clouds w^ere movino; then. 
 
 Betokening a storm, 
 When in my tent a soldier, I, 
 
 I saw his well-known form ; 
 Oh God! will never this little cheek, 
 
 Will never this cheek i^row warm"? 
 
 " The night was cold, a fearful dream 
 
 My brain pressed heavily. 
 When starting from the racks it brought 
 
 I saw mv Everard o'er me. 
 
THE BALLAD OF EVERARD GRAY. 10 
 
 And from lils forehead bare and white 
 The blood-drops trickled freely. 
 
 " He beckoned me to follow him, 
 
 ' He had found a home,' he said, 
 And ' ere the morning sun should rise, 
 
 We two should meet and wed;'. 
 But now I think how much he looked 
 
 As though he then were dead. 
 
 " I left my tent and passed the guard, 
 
 Nor aught felt of alarm, 
 For I was leaning proudly on 
 
 My own dear Everard's arm ; 
 He would protect, he manly said, 
 
 My little form from harm. 
 
 " The moon it shone so brightly then 
 
 O'er that entangled wood, 
 I fairly hugged my Everard's arm, 
 
 I thought e'en as I should, 
 That what the sky so smiled upon 
 
 Could not be else than good. 
 
 '' Ah ! now I do remember more ; — 
 The woods were densely thronged 
 
 With spectres that to earthly forms 
 Could never have belonged. 
 
 For when they hissed they seemed to be 
 Four-eyed and double tongued. 
 
20 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 " And scorpions hung from out the leaves 
 
 Of all the mouldy trees ; 
 And wolfish howls and dying moans, 
 
 Was the only kind of breeze, 
 And now to think of these dire thino-s 
 
 My blood beoins to freeze. 
 
 " I saw a orinnincr skeleton, 
 
 Nailed to a tree of Pine ; 
 A liver-colored serpent too 
 
 That gnawed decaying swine , 
 Which from their reeking bosoms came, 
 
 And nestled into mine. 
 
 " The owlets chattered in my ears, 
 
 The bats flew in my face, 
 And snails upon my arms that night 
 
 Did slimy pathways trace, 
 While maggots played upon my feet — 
 
 Oh ! 'twas a horrid place. 
 
 " We passed a haunted house ten times, 
 And swam a toad-stirred brook, 
 
 A jabbering chained ghost w^e saw, 
 A heedless child o'ertook ; 
 
 Yet all the while my Everard dear 
 Ne'er gave me one kind look. 
 
 ^' And on, and on it seemed for miles, 
 By thorny paths o'ergrown. 
 
THE BALLAD OF EVERARD GRAY. 21 
 
 These sights had strangely weakened me, 
 
 My strength was nearly, gone ; 
 Yet on we went by gibbets scared 
 
 That creaked and swayed alone. 
 
 " The sky was murky overhead ; 
 
 The earth was but a flood 
 Of festering, crawling reptiles. 
 
 And slimy, poisoned mud ; 
 The moon was one dull, dingy flame. 
 
 And all the stars were blood. 
 
 " The stones were full of pestilence ; 
 
 And noisome vapors fllled 
 The atmos])here ; all livino; thino-s 
 
 'Neath blear-eyed night were stilled ; 
 Until I half called up the thought 
 
 That Everard too was killed. 
 
 '' We hurried on, and then he spoke, 
 
 In a kind of blood-thick tone, 
 * This is the strangest wedding, dear. 
 
 That ever yet was known." — 
 I stumbled over something — looked, 
 
 My Everard was gone. 
 
 " ' Oh Everard come back,' " I cried, 
 
 For I was struck with fear, 
 When from a form upon the ground 
 
 A voice came low but clear. 
 
22 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 ' Oil Ellen! see your lover true, 
 Your Everard is here.' 
 
 " I flew to liim, forgetting all, — 
 
 The other world and this ; 
 He threw his arms around my neck — 
 
 Oh ! what a feverish bliss, 
 And planted on my yielding cheek 
 
 This lono; but chillinoj kiss. 
 
 " And then I saw him ghastly pale, 
 
 I knelt down by his side, 
 I kissed the blood from his quivering lip, 
 
 Forgetting all my pride, 
 He uttered only once my name. 
 
 And then, alas ! he died. 
 
 " The moon gave forth a fitful glow, 
 
 A kind of sombre green. 
 That lighted just enough to show 
 
 The misery of the scene ; 
 And Everard's head lay cold and stiff, 
 
 My loving arms between. 
 
 " I hugged his lifeless form to mine. 
 
 That soon so chilly grew, 
 I sadly laid him gently down 
 
 For I grew chilly too ; 
 And then I called him many times, 
 
 For what else could I do ? 
 
THE BALLAD OF EVtRARD GRAY. 23 i 
 
 " No voice there was to answer mine ; ] 
 
 No human aid was near ; j 
 
 No arm to help me bear him up ; i 
 
 No kind receiving bier ; i 
 
 Naught but the shiv'ring winds came there ] 
 
 To freeze each sorrowing tear. j 
 
 ■] 
 " I cut a lock of his glossy hair, 
 
 A button from his coat, 
 A letter from his bosom took 
 
 That I myself once wrote ; * 
 But all the while a demon clutch 
 
 Was tight around my throat. > 
 
 I gasped for breath, my starting eyes 
 
 Bloodshot and big became ; 
 My heart seemed but a heaving mass 
 
 Of agonizing flame ; 
 Yet all the while his whitened corse 
 
 Lay stiff, and cold the same. 
 
 i 
 
 " A fearful thought possessed me then, i 
 
 To never flao; nor tire 
 Until the bosoms of all men ] 
 
 Were filled with torments dire ; j 
 
 For where my brain so lately was, 
 
 Was now a hellish fire. 
 
 *' I pressed him once again to me i 
 
 And stole his portrait, — this, ^ 
 
24 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 I wept liis white liand full of tears, 
 
 And once again did kiss, 
 Then wildly ran into the wood 
 
 With many a howl and hiss. 
 
 " Oh ! what I suffered then let none 
 
 Attempt to make me tell, 
 But it was like the torture which 
 
 The doomed ones find in hell ; 
 The torments which have angels stuncr 
 
 For ages since they fell. 
 
 " The path along the lonesome wood 
 Was dotted o'er with graves ; 
 
 Until I came to other woods, 
 All filled with dismal caves. 
 
 And near their steaming entrances 
 Stood many winged slaves, 
 
 " With horrid humps upon their backs, 
 And horns their eyes between. 
 
 And scales grew on their shining arms ; 
 Some eyes were red, some green ; 
 
 And such great pairs of grinning jaws 
 I'm sure were never seen. 
 
 " And great, long, crooked, jagged claws 
 
 They had for finger nails ; 
 Their hair stood out like giant fins 
 
 Of furious battlincv whales ; 
 
THE BALLAD OF EVERARD GRAY. 25 
 
 And when they laughed they seemed to mock 
 The wintry midnight gales. 
 
 " Past these with many a hurried glance 
 
 In terror flight I flew, 
 Until my dress grew heavy with 
 
 The weight of falling dew, 
 And then one caught me, — in his cave 
 
 My shuddering form he drew. 
 
 " He told me in a wdiisper that 
 
 He was an Antiquary ; 
 That he had many a skeleton 
 
 Of fish and fowl and fairy ; 
 That oft he roamed in deserts dark 
 
 And mammoth tombs and airy. 
 
 " I felt his hot breath on my face, 
 
 I heard his putrid sigh, 
 As telling me his w^edding day 
 
 At length was drawing nigh ; 
 That he and I together soon 
 
 Would meet in marriage tie. 
 
 " I shuddered mightily, yet said 
 
 A short day he might dream on, 
 And then I laughed right heartily, 
 
 A joke it was to scream on. 
 For a curious couple we would be, 
 
 Me crazed, and he a demon. 
 2 
 
26 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 " He led me through an entry dark, 
 
 He stronger was than I, 
 Though to remove his claws from off 
 
 My arm I oft did try ; 
 And only begged a resting place 
 
 That I might go and die. 
 
 " ' No, No,' the monster said ; ' not yet,' 
 
 In voice of thundering glee, 
 ' You have forgot the words I spoke, 
 
 That you must marry me ; 
 But here we have a museum 
 
 Which you must in and see. 
 
 " A viper stuffed, of green and gold 
 
 Hung on the blackened wall. 
 With an infant's head between its teeth. 
 
 Which seemed for bread to call ; 
 And the viper swung on the wall where it hung, 
 
 Until it seemed to crawl. 
 
 " A skeleton of a lordly man. 
 
 Whose teeth were painted red, 
 So truly by machinery moved 
 
 You scarce could think him dead ; 
 His jaws they moved, his hands were clasped, 
 
 As though his prayers he said. 
 
 " A w^oman disembowelled lay. 
 
 The sight my heart-strings wrung, 
 
THE BALLAD OF EVERARD GRAY. 27 
 
 It shook my nerveless, failing limbs 
 
 And paralyzed my tongue ; 
 One monkey tore her bowels out, 
 
 One gave them to her young. 
 
 " A mother o'er a rotten shroud. 
 
 In which her baby slept. 
 Was kneeling stifF,and stark, and cold, 
 
 And stone-hard tears slie wept. 
 While vermin o'er lier haggard limbs 
 
 All eager coiled and crept. 
 
 " ' Here is a tooth,' " the demon said, 
 
 ' I from a leopard drew, 
 Who fed upon an angel like 
 
 As anything to you ; 
 And here a mummy, spider-stuffed, 
 
 A serpent's liver too. 
 
 " ' There is a tear from lovely maid 
 
 Who once a lover lost. 
 And there the withered heart of him 
 
 Who in a love was crossed. 
 And there a worm from Nero's grave, 
 
 A bone, too, tempest tossed. 
 
 '^ ' And here a forked lightning's bolt 
 
 That killed an answering bride, 
 And there the luno;s of an anchorite 
 
 Who female chai-ms denied. 
 
28 BALLADS OF THE WAR. i 
 
 And hanging there a poem from \ 
 
 A gifted man belied. : 
 
 " ' Just over there a swollen brain ' 
 
 Fresh from the battle's heat, j 
 
 And here a little cherub's eye, 1 
 Whose mother murdered it, 
 
 And there the landlord's tongue, that turned. ; 
 A widow in the street. 
 
 ; 
 
 ^' ' And here's a thief — a bandit chief. 
 
 That used to kill for play, i 
 
 But here's the gem of all of them, \ 
 
 And proud am I to say, ^ 
 Here is a little leaden ball 
 
 That killed one Everard Gray. ' 
 
 " A moment stood I paralyzed, • 
 
 As though struck quickly dead, i 
 
 Then seized a bone and fiercely bruised \ 
 Him, till his temples bled; 
 
 In both his eyes I thrust a thumb, j 
 
 Then turned, and shrieking fled. ] 
 
 " The sky was murky overhead, i 
 
 The earth was but a flood '; 
 
 Of festering, crawling reptiles, i 
 
 And slimy, poisoned mud, \ 
 
 The moon was one dull, dingy flame, 
 
 And all the stars were blood. J 
 
THE BALLAD OF EVERARD GRAY. 29 
 
 " Still on I ran, pursued by things 
 
 On evil deeds intent, 
 Until a somethino; challeno;ed me 
 
 Whose eyes were on me bent, 
 But what It was I cannot tell, 
 
 For life was nearly spent. 
 
 " And then they brought me here I know. 
 Where gloomy thoughts enwreath, 
 
 And every night these moonbeams come 
 With the story of his death ; 
 
 Where every night the blue moonlight 
 Shortens my little breath. 
 
 " And then this kiss, that once I thought 
 
 Would evil spirits charm. 
 Colder, colder, and colder grows. 
 
 As though 'twould never be warm ; 
 Ah me ! — it fills my creeping soul 
 
 With terrible alarm. 
 
 " What's that ? Oh God ! the blessed sight ~ 
 
 I wonder will he stay. 
 Comes he to say farewell to me, 
 
 Or take me soon aAvay ? 
 Nearer — ah ! truly 'tis indeed — 
 
 He comes, — my Everard Gray. 
 
 " O, lover, lover Everard Gray, 
 Lover so true to me ! 
 
30 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 Where did you get that wmding sheet ? 
 Why weep you bitterly ? 
 
 Come, put your arm around my neck, 
 And sit me on your knee." 
 
 Awhile she gazed, intently wrapped, 
 
 Along the whitened wall. 
 Until her eyes were a looking out 
 
 Of the barred windows and small ; 
 Her very soul seemed bound up in 
 
 A Heaven-ensighted thrall. 
 
 " Don't leave me here, my Everard dear, 
 Come back my Everard true ; 
 
 Don't leave me here, with spectres drear. 
 Of green and white and blue. 
 
 Come back I say!" and she beat the bars 
 Till blood from her fingers flew. 
 
 " Come back, come back, or a demon dark 
 Shall bring you back, I say — 
 
 Ah ! faithless monster ! cruel fiend ! 
 Ah, faithless Everard Gray ! " 
 
 And with a shrill and harrowino; shriek. 
 She leaped from the bars away. 
 
 Never a scene like that saw man. 
 
 Never need wish to see. 
 As she fluncT herself ao;ainst the wall 
 
 Witli fearful energv. 
 
THE BALLAD OF EVERARD GRAY. 31 
 
 Till the blood was gurgling from her mouth 
 And curdling frightfully. 
 
 O'erwrought by tears and dreadful gloom, 
 
 I left the fated cell, 
 And down the echoing stairways passed, 
 
 To where the moonbeams fell 
 Upon the smoothly gravelled walks, 
 
 That I had learned so well. 
 
 Next morn I sought the keeper out. 
 
 And he shook his hoary head — 
 " This morn, stone dead, they picked her up 
 
 In the court yard there," he said. 
 And he dropped a tear to the memory of 
 
 The w^oman soldier dead. 
 
32 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 THE BIG WHISKY PUNCH; 
 
 OR, A NEW YANKEE DOODLE. 
 
 Waste ov AVhisky, — At Martinsburg. Va., Gen. Williams 
 made what the boys called a monster toddy by knocking out the 
 heads of two hundred and fifty barrels of new " old rye," alias 
 coi'n whisky, at the still owned by Lieutenant Col. Stuart, of 
 the Confederate forces, and pouring most of it into the neighbor- 
 ing brook. A guard was at first put over it to protect it, but the 
 smell of the whisky was so strong that it overpowered them and 
 they slept on their posts. Then came the thirsty ones, and their 
 name was legion, and drank of the liquor with evil consequences 
 to themselves and the public. Hence the General's great toddy 
 making. — Phil. Evening Bulletin. 
 
 At Martinsburg, one Stuart owned 
 
 A " Still," I think they call it, 
 And as it was a quaint affair 
 
 I'll tell what did befal it. 
 This Stuart when he left the place, 
 
 He left so fast and frisky. 
 That he forgot to take his " still " 
 And many pipes of whisky. 
 Chorus — Yankee Doodle Martinsburg, 
 Yankee Doodle Whisky, 
 Yankee Doodle, Williams made 
 A punch so fast and frisky. 
 
THE BIG WHISKY PUNCH. 33 ; 
 
 This Still it stood upon the bank, ■ 
 Perhaps just where it " oughter '* 
 
 As Stuart said " that it was so 1 
 
 ■j 
 
 Convenient to the water." . 
 
 Not that he liked the latter drink, i 
 
 It never made him frisky, ; 
 
 But simply for the use it was ; 
 
 Of thinning out his whisky. j 
 
 When General Williams reached the town, 
 
 There was no need to '' shell it," . 
 
 For young and old were jolly drunk, j 
 
 His own men 'gan to smell it. ] 
 
 But Williams fearing that his boys j 
 
 Might too get drunk and frisky, j 
 
 Straight said " the water should be made \ 
 
 Like half-and-half with whisky." i 
 
 ■ Oh General, surely that's a joke, j 
 
 You really did not taste it. 
 
 For if you did you'd not incline '\ 
 
 So savagely to waste it ! " \ 
 " But soldiers, you know men are men, 
 
 And war is rather risky, 1 
 
 So you had better pour it out — j 
 
 The glorious old rye whisky." 
 
 And so as they were ordered, soon, j 
 
 They 'gan to knock the heads in, j 
 2* 
 
84 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 While some who stopped to take a drink 
 Soon went and <]i;ot their beds in. 
 
 For aye it was a jolly brand, — 
 For jollities so frisky, 
 
 And Williams' sober thought we praise, 
 For pouring out the whisky. 
 
 And soon the creek began to smell, 
 
 So very strong and mighty. 
 The very birds upon the trees 
 
 Felt unusually flighty. 
 The cows drew near and took a sniflf, 
 
 And 'gan to sport so frisky. 
 And I believe they made that day, 
 
 A milk-punch with the whisky. 
 
 A rustic happening along 
 
 Just thought he'd stop a minute, 
 To find whence came the funny smell. 
 
 Exclaimed " the deuce is in it." 
 " Behanged I think these pretty times. 
 
 And drinking rather risky, 
 For what I thought was water pure, 
 
 Has turned to right good whisky." 
 
 Two constables then came that way 
 And saw the rustic sip, sirs. 
 
 So they took out their nippers so. 
 
 And thought they'd " take a nip sirs." 
 
THE BIG WHISKY PUNCH. 35 
 
 And so thev drank and soon got drunk, 
 
 Upon the bank side frisky, 
 Each wanted to arrest himself, 
 
 For stealing old rye whisky. 
 
 A brewer stout of hops, hops by. 
 
 Who fills the eye of madam's, 
 He takes a drink and vows that this 
 
 Is better ale than " Adam's," 
 He joins the other three and now, 
 
 They have a dance so frisky. 
 The police bruise the brewer, and 
 
 The rustic sticks to whisky. 
 
 At last so thick the stream became, 
 
 By whisky in it sunk, sirs, 
 That General Williams had to cry, 
 
 " Hold or I shall be drunk, sirs ! 
 By Jove! I thought I had the nerve 
 
 To stand it, but its risky. 
 So place a guard about the rest 
 
 Of that teasing old rye whisky. 
 
 The guard was placed but sad to tell. 
 
 Yet we can reason through it. 
 The smell of whisky made them sleep, 
 
 But hardships could not do it. 
 And Williams said, when told of this, 
 
 " I knew t'was much too risky. 
 
36 BALLADS OF THE WAR. - 
 
 1 
 
 So I must e'en forgive the men ] 
 
 For sleeping on the whisky. ] 
 
 \ 
 
 An idea struck a happy man < 
 
 In faith t'was very well sirs, | 
 
 To throw a load of lemons in ■ 
 
 To take away the smell sirs. j 
 
 The Soldiers all alive became, j 
 
 And went to work quite brisky, I 
 For anything was better than 
 
 The strong smell of raw whisky. 
 
 Just now a rebel line of teams j 
 
 Appeared with horses goaded, ■] 
 
 Which happened to turn out to be j 
 
 With Orleans sugar loaded. - 
 
 So they were seized and Williams now, ■ 
 
 Appeared so gay and frisky, ] 
 " Put in the sugar, boys, ha, ha! ■ j 
 
 We'll have a punch of whisky." ' 
 
 \ 
 
 Just then news came, and Williams said, j 
 
 " Be ready, boys, instanter, \ 
 The enemy are just ahead," — 
 
 He set oiF on a canter. 
 
 And you all know what then he did • 
 
 Instead of getting frisky, : 
 And if you don't — no matter 'tis, 
 
 I only sing of whisky. 
 
TO A FOUNDLING. 37 
 
 TO A FOUNDLING. * 
 
 An Old Trick. — About 9 o'clock last nigbt an infant was 
 placed in the arms of a negro -woman at Broad and Market 
 streets, and she was requested to hold it for a while. The color- 
 ed lady waited with the child for about half an hour, but the 
 lady came not to recover her infant. The infant was taken in 
 charge by a neighbor, who named it Butler McClellan. — 
 Phil. Inquirer. 
 
 Little babe ! little babe ! 
 
 Little babe, say ; 
 Why do you slumber here ? 
 
 Tell me I pray. 
 Why on this sunny day 
 
 Comest thou here, 
 With no one to wipe away 
 
 Each little tear? 
 No one to chuckle thee 
 
 Under the chin. 
 No one to tickle thee 
 
 Making a din, 
 None to caress thee 
 
 Shield from the storm, 
 None to hard press thee 
 
 On a breast warm. 
 
 Little babe, why? 
 
 * Supposed to be addressed to Butler McClellan by the lady 
 who took him in charge. 
 
BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 "Where was thy Mother's heart ? 
 
 Little babe, say, 
 She played no mother's part 
 
 Thee to betray. 
 Was she a woman, babe ? 
 
 Did she have eyes ? 
 Did she look human, babe, 
 
 Whom thee could despise ? 
 Dwelt she in city ? 
 
 Lived she forlorn ? 
 Deserving of pity. 
 
 Or meriting scorn ? 
 
 Which of them, babe ? 
 
 Danced thou in the sunlight 
 
 Into this world ? 
 Or in the dark midnight 
 
 Was't suddenly hurl'd ? 
 Was music then playing 
 
 Its gladsomest tones ? 
 Or was there one praying 
 
 For new little ones ? 
 Or was there sweet singing ? 
 
 Or was there a curse ? 
 Was there a brawl bringing 
 
 Anything worse ? 
 
 Little babe, which ? 
 
 Come, be thou near me, 
 This bosom will greet. 
 
TO A FOUNDLING. 
 
 Nay do not fear me 
 
 Little babe sweet. 
 Come babe and tell me 
 
 All thy life through 
 If griefs ere befel thee ? 
 
 What thinc^s thou can'st do ? 
 Can'st walk a wee-bit ? 
 
 Or sing like a bird ? 
 Play with " Carlo " or " Kit " ? 
 
 Or lisp out a word ? 
 
 Can'st thou, dear babe ? 
 
 See from the tree yonder 
 
 A leaf drops away, 
 And a little girl fonder 
 
 Of leaves than of play, 
 Takes it up rovingly, 
 
 Gives it a look. 
 Places it lovingly 
 
 Into her book. 
 Thy mother 's that tree, 
 
 Dear little elf! 
 The leaf it is thee, 
 
 The girl is myself. 
 The Book is my home. 
 
 Smallest of men ! 
 Dearest babe! come 
 
 Lauo^h out again. 
 Little babe once ! 
 
 Now once ao;ain ! 
 
,40 BALLADS OF THE AVAR. 
 
 THE SOLDIER OF THE THIRD. 
 
 Among those who fell was one old man whose head was white 
 with age, and whose story is a romance of war. He had been 
 thirty years in the regular service as a private soldier. He liad 
 followed the Indians through the everglades of Flori la, bivouack- 
 ed upon the side of the Rocky Mountains, chased the Camanche 
 and the Cherokee through New Mexico, stood before the lire of 
 Buena Vista, charged up the heights of Chepultepec, and fol- 
 lowed the victorious flag of his country along the plaza of Mex- 
 ico and into the halls of the Montezumas. His arms was covered 
 with cheverons, six blue stripes indicating six consecutive enlist- 
 ments, and two red battle- stripes, typifying Florida and Mexico ; 
 and with these simple insignia he felt prouder than ever did the 
 white-plumed Murat at the head of his gaudy cavalry. He fell 
 in the heat of battle, with the shouts of his comrades ringing in 
 his ears. Poor fellow ! Lowly among the brave, almost forgot- 
 ten in this age of ingratitude and forgetfulness, who shall relate 
 his eventful and glorious history ? — Phil. Press. 
 
 The war din at Manassas rolled back to yonder 
 sky 
 
 The thunders of the day before, to pall the tem- 
 pest's cry, 
 
 And Justice who but lately was chanting peaceful 
 hymns. 
 
 Hurled down fierce notes of rage at the serpent 
 round her limbs. 
 
 There Right had raised his steady arm, and glared 
 his eagle eye. 
 
THE SOLDIER OF THE THIRD. 41 
 
 To crush the traitrous mass who seemed to woo the 
 
 battle's ply, 
 The bounding bombs usurped the plowman's busy 
 
 word, 
 Presaging wakeful glory, to the strong and gallant 
 
 "Third." 
 
 In that band of rushing warriors beat hearts in 
 rivalry. 
 
 Who should do most to aid the cause of sacred 
 liberty, 
 
 Is it lose an arm, a leg or eye, or fall with shatter- 
 ed heart, 
 
 To prove who loves their country most, must with 
 that country part ? 
 
 But with a wilder throb and a lighter step I ween. 
 
 Is yon hoary-headed soldier with the lofty colors 
 seen. 
 
 And e'er the trumpet sounds to move, his patriot 
 voice is heard. 
 
 Be ready all ye soldiers, ye gallants of the " Third." 
 
 The charge is made — he madly shouts, his heart 
 
 now feels no pause. 
 Its blood is all on tiptoe for the triumph of his 
 
 cause. 
 Now hand to hand eno-ao-incr now at the cannon's 
 
 mouth. 
 Now cutting down a gunner, some minion of the 
 
 South. 
 
42 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 But see ! lie falters, bear liim up ye sinewey arms 
 and strong ! 
 
 He's old and weak and cannot stand the fiery on- 
 set long. 
 
 Alas ! a ball has hit him, for now a shriek is heard, 
 
 And the hand is growing cold that bore the colors 
 of the '' Third." 
 
 Two comrades caught him as he fall, and to the 
 
 side they bore 
 The yielding form now stifled with the weight of 
 
 clotted gore, 
 That gathered in his throat and choked his utter- 
 ance down, 
 For the wound was in his breast, be it said to his 
 
 renown ; 
 But the first sharp sickening shock of the fatal 
 
 ball's career. 
 Is ended as he lifts his head and begs his comrade's 
 
 ear, 
 "How goes the battle, soldiers," in a faint dim 
 
 voice is heard 
 " Do the colors still float proudly o'er the gallants 
 
 of the " Third ? " 
 
 " Aye, aye old man, bear up awhile, nor let thy 
 
 old heart fret. 
 For God is with the Eight, Victory shall be with 
 
 us yet, 
 
THE SOLDIER OF THE THIRD. 43 
 
 Soothe the surgmgs of thy eagle heart, and curb 
 
 tliy restless mind, 
 Lie thee still awhile, right speedily the surgeon we 
 
 >vill find." 
 " Comrade, comrade, stay ! I'm death-hit, this is 
 
 cureless agony. 
 Stay by my side and strain your eyes, and tell me 
 
 what you see, 
 Tor I want to hear before I die what I have always 
 
 heard. 
 The victor cheers of triumph, from the strong and 
 
 mighty " Third." 
 
 With eyes now fixed in deadly pain, he sat and 
 
 w^atched the strife, 
 He'd given up for what he loved, his gray but 
 
 cheerful life. 
 And now though each convulsive throb, with agony 
 
 shook his frame. 
 And each dry and panting heart-beat, was a ghast 
 
 and quivering flame. 
 He struggled nobly to endure, that he might yet 
 
 enjoy, 
 And wept because a manly strength,he might ne'er 
 
 again employ. 
 With minojled shame and ancruish in his feeble bo- 
 
 som stirred. 
 He is growling faint and listless, the soldier of the 
 
 " Third." 
 
44 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 The waving of the foliage above his dying place, 
 Caused a stirring of the eye-lids, and a glowing af 
 
 the face, 
 For memories of other wars retinge his cheeks with 
 
 red. 
 Where full of life beneath the trees he leaped nor 
 
 felt a dread. 
 How when but twelve as drummer boy, against a 
 
 foreign foe 
 At Lundy's Lane, he boldly to the battle field did 
 
 His father was the only kin, whose voice he'd ever 
 
 heard. 
 His father was the army — the bold and dauntless 
 
 " Third." 
 
 Now thick and fast came memories of many a bat- 
 tle plain. 
 
 They brighten up his eye, and fire up his brain. 
 
 When seeking out the Indian, a callous, wily foe. 
 
 All through the swamps of Florida, he fearlessly 
 did go. 
 
 On the mountains of the West, on the plains of 
 Mexico 
 
 Victory always on his standard, would a righteous 
 cause bestow, 
 
 And now to cheat him of his fame, no envious 
 tone is heard. 
 
 For stiff and stark is growing cold the soldier of 
 the "Third." 
 
THE SOLDIER OF THE THIRD. 45 
 
 His comrades lay him gently down, and with a 
 
 heavy sigh 
 They leave him, grasp their muskets, and to the 
 
 battle hie. 
 ' Twas very sweet to think that this old man of 
 
 chivalry. 
 Should breathe his latest breath in the arms of 
 
 memory. 
 Here's a dipping of a pen to his deeds that glow 
 
 amain ! 
 Here's a sighing of the heart, for each deep throb 
 
 of pain! 
 Here's a soul-gift from the eye, which is falling 
 
 though unheard. 
 Perchance may speak my sorrow for the soldier of 
 
 the '' Third." 
 
46 BALLADS OF THE AVAR. 
 
 TO EDMUND RUFFIN: 
 
 THE VENERABLE MAN WHO FIP.ED THE FIRST GUN 
 AT FORT SUMPTER. 
 
 Gray though thy hairs be ; though deep penetra- 
 tion 
 
 Sits in those e^^es which once Hberty loved, 
 Yet gWlly thou look'st on thy land's desecration, 
 
 And false to her flag hast dastardly proved. 
 
 Oh ! where was the blood that had sacredly borne 
 thee, 
 That mantled with pride thy fond mother's face ? 
 Did it not rise in blackness and fire to scorn thee. 
 And scorch the foul thought that stains her fair 
 race ? 
 
 Oh ! where were the hands that to fame would 
 have led thee, 
 From danger and woe were put forth to save ? 
 Were they not clasped in sorrow, that truth had 
 so fled thee 
 As palsied, thy father rose from his wronged 
 grave ? 
 
TO EDMUND RUFFIN. 47 
 
 Tho' at present thou art all bcfondled and flattered, 
 Yet know that a bitter day has yet to come ; 
 
 The time will yet be when thy bones will be 
 scattered, 
 And none will be found to gather them home. 
 
 Thy name and thy state — the first at our na- 
 tion 
 That ever an aged man willingly aimed, — 
 Will single thee out from this whole generation 
 As one to be loathed e'en when traitors are 
 named. 
 
 Youth and hot blood, may be some palliation, 
 
 For crimes that are wrought 'gainst pretended 
 wrongs ; 
 But Ruffin ! thy wrinkles cry out " accusation, 
 And guilt threescore fold to thy fame now be- 
 longs. 
 
 Though the days that are left thee be moments of 
 
 quiet. 
 
 Yet think of the grave that must soon yawn 
 
 before, 
 
 And think of the time when those who'll pass by it 
 
 Will cast the hot spurn at the stone standing 
 
48 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 OUR RIFLE AND BAYONET. 
 
 In the moonlight gleaming 
 
 On the edge of thicket, 
 Keeping off the dreaming 
 
 From a drowsy picket, 
 All alive with listening 
 
 If a noise is heard, 
 All alive with glistening. 
 
 Instinctive as a bird. 
 
 Proud and stately flashing 
 
 In the morning sun. 
 Through the rebels crashing 
 
 Till the battle's won ; 
 Over mountains pressing, 
 
 Fearless on the crag. 
 Every storm caressing, 
 
 Like our gallant flag. 
 
 Eager to be bursting 
 
 On the upstart foe. 
 Marching without thirsting, 
 
 Dav and nioht 'twill ffo. 
 
OUR RIFLE AND BAYONET. 4U 
 
 Now a foe lies bleedino; 
 
 'Neath its reeking blade, 
 Almost nerveless, pleading, 
 
 While a prayer is made. 
 
 Swung aloft all reeking 
 
 In the bloody strife, 
 Each new moment seeking 
 
 Out another life. 
 In the valley lying 
 
 From the thundering strife, 
 Says a rustic, spying, 
 
 " Here's a jolly knife." 
 
 Down a chimney going. 
 
 Makes an M. D. dance, 
 Picks it up so knowing. 
 
 Thinks it is a lance. 
 Cobblers hit while waxing 
 
 An eternal end, 
 Thinks the awl is taxing 
 
 What the law won't mend. 
 
 On the ship appearing. 
 
 Sailor speaks a wish, 
 That no harm is nearing 
 
 From that curious fish. 
 In the schoolroom hinting 
 
 To the boys who nod, 
 3 
 
50 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 Who quickly take to squinting 
 At master's tickling rod. 
 
 Sewing woman, dreaming, 
 Heavily doth sigh. 
 
 Because this needle seeming- 
 ly hath got no eye . 
 
 Southern swells are moaning, 
 And are growing sick, 
 
 Don't like Yankee honing. 
 Nor the Scott tooth-pick. 
 
 All their army paling, 
 
 (Our fencing does'nt please). 
 At prospect of the railing 
 
 They will get from these. 
 They've many things been stealing 
 
 From Uncle's pocket large. 
 No sign of thanks revealing. 
 
 The record is, " to charge." 
 
 Let them beware the raking 
 
 When gathered are our men ; 
 They won't admire the making 
 
 Of charges with this pen. 
 Logically we're going 
 
 Their vitals to anoint, 
 By critically showing 
 
 Them so fine a point, 
 
THE RIFLE AND BAYONET. 51 
 
 Adepts ill art of rifling', 
 
 Light fingers and dark ejes, 
 
 We'll show them there's no trifllncc 
 In our Sharpe replies. 
 
 When they see our rifling 
 
 Thick and fast and sore, 
 They will say, all stifling, 
 
 " What a hori'id bore ! " 
 Funny, though no fanning, 
 
 Arms all thrown away. 
 To see the body running 
 
 Off their legs away. 
 
 Proud and stately flashino^ 
 
 In the morning sun, 
 Through the rebels crashing, 
 
 Till the battle's won.. 
 Over mountains pressing, 
 
 Fearless on the crag. 
 Every storm caressing 
 
 Like our gallant flag. 
 
02 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 PHILIP'S VICTORY OVER PHILLIS. 
 
 Philip and Phillis a once loving pair, 
 
 Of late very quarrelsome grew ; 
 She said it was foul, he said it was fair, 
 
 He vowed it was black and she blue. 
 So after a day of perpetual strife, 
 
 With oaths full many a score. 
 He said '' he would make an end of this life, 
 
 By going down South to the War." 
 
 " Oh Philip my dear, do you mean what you say ? " 
 
 In a tone of sarcasm and fire. 
 Sweet Phillis replied — " Oh hurry I pray, 
 
 'Tis just the thing I desire. 
 And if while under the orders you tread 
 
 Of McClellan or General Banks, 
 A stray cannon ball shall take off your head, 
 
 Pray give it my very best thanks." 
 
 "All right, my loving and womanly dear. 
 
 Of charity the example. 
 If that occurs I'll often be here 
 
 On your brain and breast to trample. 
 
PHILIP'S VICTORY OVER PHILLIS. 53 
 
 Such horrid visions jour brain shall bear, 
 On your breast such demons shall tread, 
 
 That you'll start from out a vicious nightmare 
 To see my ghost by your bed." 
 
 " But remember my dear, my Phillis dear. 
 
 Things may not take place as you've willed, 
 And though I'd rather be dead than here, 
 
 Perchance I shall not be killed ; 
 And then you shall see me stalking in, 
 
 With golden epaulets bright, 
 And in a thunderino; voice bemn 
 
 To rack your soul with affright." 
 
 " No matter, I care not, let come what will, 
 
 No need of a futher scoflp, 
 I care not, you see, that the wars should kill, 
 
 If they only take you off. 
 Suppose you come back with your epaulets bright. 
 
 And your thundering voice's doom. 
 You've oft called me witch, I'll turn one outright, 
 
 And flee to the clouds on a broom." 
 
 " But Phillis my dear, perhaps you have heard 
 
 In parlor or kitchen or hall. 
 Of a thing that at three miles brings down a bird, 
 
 In the shape of an Armstrong ball, 
 And then to think of the awful mishap 
 
 Of being brought down loith a sticky 
 
54 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 Of giving your head a death dealing rap, 
 On the edge of a simple brick. 
 
 '' Perhaps when lying all cold and flat 
 
 You will own I truly have said, 
 It is better to have a brick in your hat 
 
 Than to have it in your head. 
 But no more, I am done, my curse I bequeath, 
 
 And by the beautiful stars. 
 By the heavens above, by the place beneath, 
 
 I'm off to the merciful wars. 
 
 " Good bye sweet Phillis " — a kiss he dared 
 
 To steal, spite the frowns she wore ; 
 And picking up a bundle prepared. 
 
 He darted through the door. 
 But the wilful voice of Phillis so sweet, 
 
 And which she had cause to deplore, 
 Said " Good bve, of all thino;s never retreat. 
 
 And, oh pray, come back no more." 
 
 Now Philip so weary had grown of late 
 
 Of this domestic strife. 
 That a little plan had entered his pate 
 
 To reform his still dear wife. 
 So in a soldiers suit he arrayed 
 
 His form, a mustache he wore. 
 Determined at night he would serenade 
 
 His Phillis, before her door. 
 
PHILIP'S VICTORY OVER PHILLIS. 55 
 
 Nioht came, and witli a guitar in hand 
 
 He briskly Avended his way, ; 
 
 Through the tangled brush, and some o'ergrown ; 
 land, 
 
 And thinking what he should play. \ 
 
 At last he arrived at his cottao;e white ] 
 
 Which life or death to him brings, j 
 
 And the moon was shinins; never so bright, i 
 
 As he touched his hand to the strings. ^ 
 
 And after playing a plaintive strain \ 
 
 That seemed like a melting prayer, \ 
 
 He sang " Sweet be thy Rest," not in vain, ] 
 
 For a window opens there. j 
 
 And Phillis all decked in night-cap white \ 
 
 Pretending a sleepy stare, i 
 
 Slowly asked " what means this outcry at night ? \ 
 
 Wlio the devil is it there ? " ^ 
 
 So he sang " loved wife of this bosom true, ! 
 
 Oh hear my wail I beg," j 
 
 But she, the loved wife, seized upon and threw ; 
 
 At Phil, a rotten egg. 
 Who, finding this attempt had failed, \ 
 
 With passion bubbled o'er. 
 He soon resolved, and straight assailed ; 
 
 The fastenings on his door. 
 
 She barricades, he threatens mightily, j 
 
 And swears, believina; it no sin, ! 
 
56 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 Until down goes the door, and frightfully, 
 
 He boldly rushes in. 
 And Phillis trembles now amain 
 
 Phil, draws a bowie knife, 
 She vows she ne'er will fight again, 
 
 He swears he'll take her life. 
 
 Phil, said " the soldiers' orders were, 
 
 As dear to them as life, 
 My Colonel made each soldier swear 
 
 That each would kill his wife. 
 Now I have been a husband lono^, 
 
 A loving one and true. 
 Your time has come, 'tis not my wrong, 
 
 I'm ordered to kill you." 
 
 " But Phillis, my orders were this night. 
 
 At which I did not repine. 
 To usher you to a heaven of lights 
 
 With a strain of music divine. 
 Perhaps I might have saved your life — 
 
 At least for it I could beg. 
 But pity flew, and out flew my knife. 
 
 When you threw that rotten egg. 
 
 " Prepare, prepare " and the room grew dense 
 
 With a bluish kind of air, 
 And the fiends caught up the awful sense 
 
 Of the hellish word, " Prepare." 
 
PHILIP'S VICTORY OVER PHILLIS. 57 
 
 " Foro^ive, formve ! " and the ti^emblino; voice 
 
 Begged tliat it yet might live, 
 And the room responds, the spirits rejoice, — 
 
 At the words " forgive, forgive." 
 
 " Wilt ever be humble and gentle and meek, 
 
 Submissive and tender and true, 
 Oh woman ! remember to whom you speak. 
 
 For Jam speaking to you." 
 Phil, said in a tone of thundering might, 
 
 As if rao-e was burstino; his heart, 
 And he listened while in a tone of affright, 
 
 His wife this vow did impart : — 
 
 " Oh, husband, I never will speak a word, 
 
 Which may thy soul displease. 
 And if ever in Heaven a prayer w^as heard 
 
 May mine be ; — here on my knees 
 I'll ask that God, I've offended so oft, 
 
 That both he and thou wilt forgive." 
 And Phillis all meek held her hands aloft 
 
 And murmured, " Forgive and let live ! " 
 
 " Philis rise, and come to my bosom, wife ! " 
 
 Phil.'s tears did well nigh choke, 
 " It was only to cure that wicked strife 
 
 Of yours that I coined thisyoA:^." 
 " Oh husband you've conquered just as you should 
 
 A peace ere it was too late. 
 I promise to ever continue a good, 
 
 A peaceful and loving mate." 
 
58 BALLADS OF THE WAE. 
 
 A CHORUS FROM THE CREW OF THE 
 " PETREL." 
 
 SUNG TO A TUNE EXTEMPORISED. 
 
 Merrily jingled the bells all then, 
 
 Jingled the bells all merrily, 
 When out of Charleston harbor sailed 
 
 We of the " Petrel," We. 
 The sun had never so brightly shone. 
 
 Never so brightly shone he. 
 As filling our rag and waving our flag, 
 
 We stoutly put to sea. 
 
 Jo\'fully bubbled the waves all then, 
 
 Bubbled the waves so joyfully. 
 That " Uncle Sam " was quite forgot 
 
 By those in the " Petrel," We. 
 And the stately ship that hove in sight 
 
 We thought to easily flee. 
 But she showed us her guns, from a myriad 
 of suns. 
 
 She blowed us into the sea. 1 
 
 Mournfully jingle the bells all now, 
 Jingle the bells all mournfully ; 
 
A CHORUS FROM THE CREW OF THE "PETREL." 59 
 
 And from '' Moyamensing's " windows look 
 
 We of the " Petrel," We. 
 Perhaps a scaffold will be our end, 
 
 Oh men, ye all will agree, 
 There's but little fun, and naught to be won, 
 
 In pirating on the sea. 
 
 SONNET ON WAR. 
 
 Thou minister of vengeful passion. War ! 
 Thou devastatino; lio-htnino-'s seethincr flood ! 
 We hail thee as the master god of blood, 
 
 The gloss of sin, of death the other star. 
 
 When first on sunny earth, thy curse appeared, 
 Mankind was fixed to peaceful, kindly arts 
 That rolled content upon their thankful hearts, 
 
 While on a pearl-couch cherub Love was reared. 
 
 But now all changed to melancholic throbs 
 An unassuaged wrath of tireless strength 
 Heaves up our land's entire breadth and length, 
 
 And Love is crushed by fratricidal mobs 
 
 Oh, engine of the fiends ! destruction's sign ! 
 
 Life's most tumultuous heavy, griefs are thine. 
 
60 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 LINES TO ONE WHO HAD A BROTHER 
 IN THE REBEL ARMY. 
 
 (both being friends of the author.) 
 
 Thy brother in the rebel cause, 
 
 Which many States have wrecked, 
 Now bids defiance to the laws 
 
 Which those States did protect. 
 No task indeed, be thine to send 
 
 Reproach or idle word, 
 He miHit himself with those defend 
 
 While hate his bosom stirred . 
 But rather let some afterthought 
 
 In sorrow wreathe his heart, 
 That kindred lives so dearly bought. 
 
 He should attempt to part. ] 
 
 Why does his once true soul now spurn ] 
 
 The flag he used to cheer, 
 And hail with sentiments that burn 
 
 Like the applauding tear? I 
 
 Those honored heroes of the past, ^ 
 
 Whose memories float hio-h ' 1 
 
TO A BROTHER IN THE REBEL ARMY. 61 
 
 As liMitnino; banner of the blast. 
 
 Or eagles in the sky ; 
 Why should he so forget their names ? 
 
 Is he beyond the reach 
 Of those whose influence steady flames 
 
 With lessons which they teach ? 
 
 Misled is he by fawning men — 
 
 Could time such change impart ? 
 In youth ne'er false — he now, as then. 
 
 Shuns treason in his heart. 
 Though victory's cup full oft we drink, 
 
 Though failure lights upon 
 His standard, yet I proudly think 
 
 Both hearts still beat as one ; 
 And though cut off from early scenes 
 
 Oh ! think these times the veil, 
 Which 'twixt the skylight intervenes 
 
 To droughted lands assail ; 
 The grass springs fresh, the lily's cup 
 
 Beneath it's touch revives ; 
 The clouds move off", earth brightens up. 
 
 Again affection lives. 
 
 Let winged destruction hurl its woe 
 
 Across our lovely land, 
 Until all panting 'neatli each throe, 
 
 Our homes embrace the sand. 
 What though the black domestic fiend 
 
 Should ride upon our necks, 
 
62 BALLADS OF THE WALL 
 
 And drape tlie hopes on which we leaned, 
 With blood and human wrecks f 
 
 What thouo-h the rebel's murderous thoup^i 
 The civil broil instil ? 
 
 Oh, care not that their fame he's sought, 
 He is thy brother still ! 
 
 QUERIES ( ? ) 
 Our Willie in the arbor sat. 
 
 And eat the grapes all day 
 So fast, that very soon I thought 
 
 That he would fall away. 
 Said I to Amy " can'st thou tell 
 
 Why Will, the drunkard's road 
 Usurps ? and why his being drunk 
 
 Makes him a cannon's load ? " 
 My Amy straightway gave it up — 
 
 To guess was not her lot ; 
 So I exclaimed — " you see it is, 
 
 Because he is Grape ^hot^ 
 Amy smiled faintly, 'twas like no laugh at all, 
 Saying '' 'tis plain 2/ot/r wits are at a hall^ 
 
THE LADY OF THE LIEUTENANT COLONEL. 63 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LIEUTENANT COLONEL. 
 
 A lady fair to look upon 
 
 In a darkened chamber lay, 
 And though 'twas only afternoon 
 
 (So the mantel clock did say,) 
 But little light came into the. room 
 
 From the flush of outside day. 
 
 Motionless lay the lady fair, 
 
 A picture of wondrous grace, 
 With a hand so small and an arm so white. 
 
 That the Earth seemed not her place ; 
 But o-rief with ruthless hand had clutched 
 
 The roses from her face. 
 
 Just now she stirred — a tear-drop fell 
 
 From her holy lighted eye. 
 And over the face of a portrait ran 
 
 As she uttered low a cry. 
 That from her soul in sadness wrought 
 
 A kind of mur murine; sio^h. 
 
64 BALLxVDS OF THE WAR. 
 
 "Three months agone, and a joyous wife 
 
 I sat upon his knee, 
 And marked the starting place of the smiles 
 
 That he used to smile to me, 
 But ah! that face and its welcoming smile 
 
 I never more shall see. 
 
 " Three months ao-one — ere the chillino[ note 
 Of the trumpet of war was heard, 
 
 I leapt, and danced, and laughed, and sang 
 Li fylit-h carted as a bird. 
 
 But a gloomy three months time has passed 
 Since warmth this bosom stirred. 
 
 " And then the day, the horrible day, 
 When a demon came from beneath. 
 
 With a wicked tale of his being shot. 
 To take away my breath ; 
 
 Ah me ! the news of that battle field 
 Has well nigh caused my death. 
 
 " Yon clock, that stands on the mantel there 
 Whose music he loved, he said. 
 
 Marked when our rapture rose with the sun 
 But never with it fled. 
 
 Must be removed, for its mournful ring, 
 Seems like the voice of the dead. 
 
 " Ah ! never a kinder heart than his 
 Was part of man's estate, 
 
THE LADY OF THE LIEUTENANT COLONEL. 65 I 
 
 Friendsliip had never to ask but once, — \ 
 
 The poor had never to wait, \ 
 
 With his generous gift a prince he made i 
 Of the beo-o-ar at his o;a,te. 
 
 " Could not a less manlier form be found '\ 
 
 To lead in the battle's ply ? 
 For never a nobler soul had man, 
 
 Never so searching an eye, j 
 
 Never a love but his could so ] 
 
 Thrill woman with a sigh. I 
 
 " Each movement of the curtain, 
 
 A solemn cadence is, , 
 
 The ticking of the watch I wear, ; 
 
 Puts me in mind of his. ] 
 
 Dead — dead — ah ! would my head were laid | 
 
 Upon the field with his. I 
 
 " There's our boy upon the doorstep — * i 
 
 The almost infant reveller, i 
 
 Tossing about unconsciously, 
 
 I hear his ringing laughter, ! 
 
 And though I love to hear him so 1 
 
 Each trill is a reminder. j 
 
 " For it warns me of the times agone ' 
 
 When near me one would hover, 
 
 And tell me of adventures j 
 
 He met with as a rover. : 
 
66 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 Ah me ! so bitterly of the time 
 When my husband was a lover. 
 
 " Suppose his spirit should visit me, 
 
 Should in yon chair appear, 
 Methinks I could look on the dead all night 
 
 And never feel a fear. 
 Though he were pale and bleeding, I'd be 
 
 So happy were he here. 
 
 " But that rinorincf at the door-bell ! 
 
 How my heart begins to swim. 
 At this moment too, is't possible ? 
 
 My eyes are growing dim. 
 By the beating of this bosom 
 
 It must be news of him." 
 
 Quickly comes the little footsteps 
 
 Gently pattering like rain, 
 " Soul be silent for the messao:e — 
 
 Comes the boy to ease my pain ? 
 Bursts he in with joy exclaiming 
 
 ' Papa has come home again.' 
 
 '* Papa home, you little cherub 
 Do you know what you have said, 
 
 Papa dearest, never can come home 
 You know, boy, he is dead. 
 
 And far up with the angels, pet. 
 He sleeps — the blameless dead." 
 
THE LADY OF THE LIEUTENANT COLONEL. 67 
 
 " I know better, for I saw him 
 
 And mamma, I tried to hide ; 
 But he kissed me, asked to see you, 
 
 And his coat was blue and wide, 
 In his hat was father's feather, 
 
 And his bright sword at his side." 
 
 " Papa home ! thou dearest treasure, 
 
 Kiss me that again he's home. 
 Closer boy ! run now and tell him, 
 
 Kun and tell him I Avill come, 
 Run and hug, and kiss, and bless him, 
 
 And kiss him till I come. 
 
 "But this dress so sombre would pall him, 
 
 And place on his joy a bar. 
 It must off, for I feel so plainly 
 
 These weeds a libel are, 
 With my soul and body in mourning 
 
 To laugh I would not dare. 
 
 " What shall I wear ? the poplin gown 
 
 Which so did please him then. 
 My bridal dress more fitting is 
 
 Than my poplin gown of green ; 
 'Twas in that dress I took him first. 
 
 It shall receive acjain. 
 
 " Throw open full wide the shutters, 
 Oh ! that breeze it comes to me, 
 
68 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 As 'twere the li)3eratlng breath 
 
 That sets my spirit free, 
 Throuo;h the former Moom of the curtain 
 
 The bright bkie heavens I see. 
 
 " Ring out thou clock on the mantel ! 
 
 What time is it noAv ? just four — 
 'Twas just the same hour he left me 
 
 To go to the terrible war, 
 But now his dangers appalling 
 
 Like all my sorrows, are o'er. 
 
 "Again shall I leap with the merriment 
 
 Of the joyous days agone. 
 Again shall my generous laughter 
 
 Give the lie to a chilling moan. 
 Again shall I laugh with the loving zest 
 
 For I Avill not be alone. 
 
 " I wonder if I am much changed, — 
 
 For sixteen I used to pass. 
 Let me see ! how the cheeks are faded 
 
 And sunken the eyes, alas ! 
 I have grown, too, somewhat thinner. 
 
 For I see it in the glass. 
 
 " There, now the dress is upon me. 
 How fits it Betty, my dear ? 
 
 It seems to hang very loosely. 
 About my form just here, 
 
THE LADY OF THE LIEUTENANT COLONEL. G9 
 
 Ah ! my form is thinner and longer, 
 Else why is it looser here ? 
 
 " But my voice, Betty dear, oh, tell me — 
 
 (Prythee my 'kerchief bring) 
 Does it still preserve its freshness 
 
 The strong and joyous ring 
 As of old, when those love-lipped ballads 
 
 He used to hear me sing ? 
 
 " Will never this cheek grow florid ? 
 
 Never glow bright this eye ? 
 Never this hair flow in ringlets ? 
 
 Ne'er leave my bosom the sigh ? 
 Will never these arms be strong again 
 
 To bring his bosom nigh ? 
 
 " Seems yet a dread o'er me creeping, 
 
 To palsy me even here, 
 Seems over the joys I am feeling 
 
 To run a chillsome fear. 
 On the sky-capped hopes I'm weaving 
 
 There seems to hang a tear. 
 
 " Betty, dear, am I almost ready ? 
 
 Pray tell me how I look. 
 Do I look like one who but lately 
 
 Seemed of the world forsook ? 
 Yery well, indeed ! then pray hand me, 
 
 Yon golden clasped book. 
 
70 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 " Betty, thank you — this book the ' Leaflets 
 
 Of Memory ' he gave to me 
 'Twas just as the golden sunset 
 
 Touched the tops of each waving tree — 
 And here is the rich dedication 
 
 In his own dear hand, you see. 
 
 " Is each fold of the dress becoming ? 
 
 Each ribbon in its place ? 
 Each bracelet and pin well suited? 
 
 Does wave each ringlet with grace ? 
 Is my step both hearty and lightsome ? 
 
 Does a smile enwreath my face ? 
 
 " Ah, tell me, Betty, I pray you ! 
 
 'T would be a horrible sin. 
 To go down to him all untidy. 
 
 With my voice a screeching din. 
 With a step so lagged and loathsome, 
 
 And my smile a ghastly grin. 
 
 "All ready, I thank you, my Betty. 
 
 Pray watch my faltering feet, 
 For already with wild excitement 
 
 My heart begins to beat, 
 And I know not if I can safely 
 
 Trust my brain and its whirlsome heat. 
 
 " Stay with me until you see him 
 Beckon me to his arms. 
 
THE LADY OF THE LIEUTENANT COLONEL. 
 
 Which ever more shall enclose me 
 From the dreadfal war's alarms. 
 
 Watch me closely till you see me 
 Safe enfolded in his arms. 
 
 " Good bye, to the solemn cadence 
 
 Of the dimly lighted room, 
 Good bye, to the solemn tickings 
 
 So very suggestive of gloom ; 
 I go to the husband and lover, 
 
 I go to a new life's bloom. 
 
 " Quickly comes the little footsteps 
 
 Gently pattering like rain. 
 Bless the boy, he's quelled the throbbings 
 
 Of this anxious bosom's pain. 
 Kiss me, boy ! — Where is your father ? 
 
 Let me see his face ao;ain. 
 
 o 
 
 " Mother, this way, in the parlor 
 
 Father is awaiting you. 
 Steady, mother, dearest mother, 
 
 These tremblings shake you through. 
 Ah, mother 'twill be joyful, 
 
 The meeting of you two ! " 
 
 " Run and tell him, boy, I'm coming. 
 Then my smile thou may'st win. 
 
 Run and tell, and hug, and bless him, 
 Dearest bov, thv task begin." 
 
72 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 " Motlier sweet, I pray you let me, 
 Mother let me take you in." 
 
 " Well boy as thou wishest, be it, 
 Open wide the parlor door. 
 
 Betty, for the world don't let me, 
 Sink upon the surging floor." 
 
 *' Motlier there he is — Oh, see him 
 Father — mother 's at the door." 
 
 " Boy thou liest ! It is not he. 
 Let me look — oh, look again. 
 
 Though he has a noble bearing, 
 For this deed, the brand of Cain 
 
 Be upon him — no, not tliat bad. 
 
 Though he's split my heart in twain." 
 
 " I am a Captain, madam. 
 
 Of your noble husband's corps. 
 
 I came to bring you sad news. 
 Your husband is no more. 
 
 I came to bring this loyal blade, 
 The sword your husband wore. 
 
 " The foeman of our much loved land 
 
 Had need to wear a shield. 
 Who e'er our Colonel brave did strike 
 
 Lay cold upon the field, — 
 A victim to the righteous wrath 
 
 In whicli his arm was steeled. 
 
THE LADY OF THE LIEUTENANT COLONEL. 73 
 
 " But, madam, nations need a spur, — 
 
 A martyr's eloquence, 
 To rouse tlieni from the seeds of sloth, 
 
 To deeds of eminence. 
 For such an one our leader took 
 
 His life, and bore it hence. 
 
 " A nation, madam, mourns with you, 
 
 A nation bleeds to-day. 
 That woes like ours must needs bear 
 
 The talented away. 
 The nation weeps, while thanking you 
 
 For him, lost in the fray." 
 
 "Come closer, boy — aye, closer still. 
 
 Support me, Betty, dear. 
 Good day, sir ! who would think, my boy 
 
 I had so large a tear — 
 When lately I've so many shed, 
 
 From sorrow's fountain, here. 
 
 Ah ! well I knew the joyful news. 
 
 Was but a well coined lie. 
 That spread it's venom o'er my frame, 
 
 The tears of love to dry. 
 That I should live to see this day — 
 
 Quick, water, or I die ! " 
 
 In Betty's arms the lady fair. 
 While Betty softly prayed, 
 
74 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 So white, and, ah, so motionless 
 
 Was all serenely laid, 
 Until more help came, then her form 
 
 Was to the bed conveye 
 
 That night upon her couch she lay, 
 And tossed each weary limb, 
 
 As though in dreams she spectres met, 
 So gaunt, and gray, and grim, 
 
 And 'twas many days ere she could think 
 Or talk of aucrht save him. 
 
TEE LOVE OF THE WOUNDED ZOUAVE. 75 
 
 THE LOVE OF THE WOUNDED ZOUAVE. 
 
 A Zonave lay in a sorry plight, 
 
 In the hospitual, weary and sore, 
 And in faith it was a right sorry sight 
 
 To see the wounds that he bore. 
 
 A bandage of white was round the head 
 
 Of this Union man and true. 
 But his nose and his trowsers were very red 
 
 And his spirit and eyes were blue. 
 
 Now three days' suns had risen and set 
 
 Sinee first on that bed he lay ; 
 His fever was gone — no more he would fret, 
 
 When the nurses passed that way. 
 
 Around him men of many a mould 
 Lay proud of the wounds they bore, 
 
 Whose hearts were wreathed in a purpose bold 
 And whose faces were wreathed with gore. 
 
 His shoulder no more tlie knapsack held, 
 His arm had no musket there. 
 
76 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 And though his head was very much swelled, 
 It had very little hair. 
 
 The sweets of tobacco could do no harm, 
 
 So he their presence invoked ; 
 Though he had " regalia " on his arm, 
 
 He another grimly smoked. 
 
 And so we see him at leisure now, 
 
 In comparative quiet and ease, 
 But look at the stern though upraised brow 
 
 As a gliding form he sees. 
 
 The rosy cheeks' fresh glow of health. 
 
 The bright eye's lovely hues. 
 Pictured to him a mine of wealth, 
 
 " But ah ! should she refuse ? 
 
 " What should she be of high family. 
 
 That being, so gentle and brave ? 
 I know she never could fancy me, 
 
 I'm but a lire Zouave. 
 
 " I'd show her my name upon my arm. 
 My wounds and prospects lay bare, 
 
 I'd tell of my strength till her heart should warm 
 If — I only had more liair. 
 
 " Methought, as I lay on my bed last night, 
 Just as the moonbeams fell here, 
 
THE LOVE OF THE WOUNDED ZOUAVE. 77 
 
 She quietly stole upon my dim sight, 
 And dropped on my hand a tear. 
 
 "' And she murmured something of kindred love 
 
 In such a pitying tone, 
 I thought the words which so deeply could move, 
 
 Came not from her lips alone. 
 
 " And I thought, thouo-h this I scarce dare confess, 
 
 For it could not, could not be, 
 That when she came my wounds to dress, 
 
 She gave a kiss to me. 
 
 " ' Twas just as the clock had ceased its stroke 
 
 Of the little hour of " one," 
 I strove to detain her — but alas, I awoke, 
 
 And the moonlight and she were gone. 
 
 " Would it were true, — she so kindly can weep, 
 
 Why should I fear her then ? 
 Perhaps, if she thinks I am asleep. 
 
 Why, may be, she'd kiss me again. 
 
 " Here goes ! " and back on his little bed 
 
 In well-feigned sleep he lay. 
 And 'twas not lono; after sense had fled 
 
 That the lady came that way. 
 
 And she saw in his true and sweet repose 
 A mind full easy to sway. 
 
78 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 While his sighs strayed tip and down his nose 
 Like elephants at play. 
 
 He listened, she gazed — lie murmured, she wept, 
 
 He spoke of a beautiful land. 
 While a strange emotion upon him crept, 
 
 As a tear fell on his hand. 
 
 All throbbing, yet burning, yet quiet, yet now 
 
 Is come the warm breath of bliss ; 
 For he feels a soft hand on his brow, 
 
 And on his lips a kiss. 
 
 He sudden awakes, — she starts from his grasp, 
 
 And fain would his presence flee, 
 But he held her firm, — so a locket and clasp 
 
 She o-ave him to set her free. 
 
 o 
 
 She then disappeared ; while enraptured quite 
 
 Regardless of pain or pelf, 
 The Zouave found in the locket so bright, 
 
 A portrait of herself. 
 
 " Oh, joy ! here too a name is wrought, — 
 'Tis Emma ! — burst not my heart — 
 
 When coming South, 'twas little I thought, 
 The shaft of Love to start ! " 
 
 But now she comes Avith a firmer tread, 
 And dancing eyes, where gaiety we trace. 
 
THE LOVE OF THE WOUNDED ZOUAVE. 79 
 
 Benevolence stands out upon her liead, 
 A Roman nose upon her face. 
 
 The Zouave looked upon her — saw her smile — 
 He took her hand, — in whispers fine 
 
 And tremulous, without deceit or guile, 
 He softly murmured, " Wilt be mine ? " 
 
 " Emma," said he, " thou'st done the greatest harm, 
 The keenest flash thou did'st impart, 
 
 For though a bayonet ran through my arm, 
 Thy eyes have pierced my heart." 
 
 She pressed his hand, — the story it is true, — 
 
 And answered with a quiet glee, 
 " The same ball that has tortured you, 
 
 Alack ! has wounded me ! " 
 
 " Then be thou mine, though angel innocence; 
 
 For thee I'll fight, or beg, or steal ; 
 Be thou the only healing recompense 
 
 That e'er my wounds shall feel." 
 
 " Not now," the maiden modestly replies, 
 " Though often to thy bedside I'll be won, 
 
 The only union that I now dare recognize, 
 Is that of Washington ! 
 
 " One day, when Fate has ceased these wars 
 And men have ceased to bleed. 
 
80 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 And thou acquired perhaps new scars, 
 Then I'll be thme indeed ! 
 
 " Farewell, farewell ! nor ever seem to know, 
 
 Save only as a woman true, 
 She who through life would thy wife gladly go. 
 
 Which now my country's need forbids to do." 
 
 The Zouave kissed her many kind adieus. 
 And she withdrew, her mission to obey ; 
 
 So we'll suppose, when Peace her charm renews. 
 That they'll be married in the usual way. 
 
SONG. 81 
 
 SONG. 
 
 The winter 's howling round us, boys, 
 
 But our hearts are warming, 
 Soon, perhaps, the sound, my boys, 
 
 Will hear of battle storming. 
 What care we for wassail wine ? 
 
 Naught in those can cheer us, 
 What is like the " form in line," 
 
 When the battle's near us ? 
 
 Chorus. — Here's to a soldier's life, my boys. 
 Here's to a soldier's life ! 
 Here's to a soldier's strife my boys. 
 The soldier's life and strife. 
 
 Bravely in the van, my boys, 
 
 We will march together ; 
 '' Charge," as none else can, my boys, 
 
 In all kinds of weather. 
 For the life we love to sing. 
 
 Which we e'er will cherish. 
 Is the soldier's, — so it bring 
 
 Danger, though we perish. 
 4«: 
 
82 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 SONNET TO THE " NAMELESS ONES." 
 
 An Affecting Scene. An interesting incident occurred on 
 Friday at the Baltimore station. Wliile the returning troops 
 were waiting to take the cars, one of the cavalry that had just 
 arrived, espied a brother in the ranks, and dismounting, ran to 
 embrace him. As soon as the salutation was over, he inquired 
 of two other brothers, who had also been in the battle at Bull's 
 Run, and tlie reply was, "they are in their graves." The 
 scene was so affecting that every bystander united their tears 
 with tliose of the weeping brothers. They soon after took, per- 
 haps, a final leave of each other — the one returning home 
 wounded, and tlie other proceeding to defend the honor and in- 
 tegrity of his Government. These brothers were Germans, 
 and one of the dead was twin with the one that was entering the 
 army. — /'/;//. Inquirer. 
 
 *' III tlicMT graves I " oli words of anguish 
 
 Wliicli a brotlier's tongue imparts; 
 Can our lioly cause e'er languish, 
 
 Breasted by sucli noble hearts ? 
 *' In their graves I " their forms attired 
 
 In the solemn dress of woe ; 
 But their souls, by God inspired, 
 
 Shine with fame's intensest glow. 
 Brothers meeting — brothers speaking 
 
 Of two brothers battle killed. 
 Brothers parting, — hearts a breaking. 
 
 Though God of battles willed ; 
 " In their graves I " — Oh God, restrain 
 
 The bullets sent at these two who remain. 
 
TO THE MEM£)RY OF A SENATOR SOLDIER. 83 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF A SENATOR SOLDIER. 
 
 Sadly the bells are tolling, tolling, 
 
 Over the gloomed and surging streets ; 
 Slowly the drums are rolling, rolling, 
 
 High above our own heart-beats. 
 Blackly the hearse is bearing, bearing, 
 
 One to the open-laurelled tomb ; 
 Wildly the throng is wearing, wearing. 
 
 Looks of fevered funeral-gloom ; 
 And the bells, and the drums, and the hearse, and 
 the throng. 
 And the voice from the bells, 
 As it sighfully swells, 
 And the moan from the drums 
 As it deepfully comes. 
 And the groans of each wheel 
 Of the hearse as they steal. 
 And the wails of the throng 
 As they sob along, 
 Usurping the heart and filling the eye, 
 Tell us a great one is passing by, 
 A last hour on earth is drawing; nio-h. 
 
84 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 And the bells and the drums, and the hearse and 
 
 the throng, 
 And the tributes they utter, — this heart-giA^ing 
 
 song, 
 To the memory of Baker shall ever belong. 
 
 TO THE DEAD HERO OF MISSOURI. 
 
 Lyon, we mourn ! whose great unselfishness, 
 
 Whose high devotion spoke of heaven's grace. 
 Whose bright career while weeping still we bless, 
 
 Now thou art g-one ! who, who, shall fill thv 
 place ? 
 'Twas not enough that thou should' st give thy 
 brain. 
 
 With all its bright conceptions battle shown. 
 But thou must give thy life — yet not in vain 
 
 Our country says, " thy fame is still her own." 
 Legions of armed men will think of thee. 
 
 And rush from fireside joys to battle woes, 
 To plant the Eagle banner of the free 
 
 Upon the graves of sin-stained rebel foes. 
 Lyon ! thou gav'st thy fortune and thy blood, 
 Fame calls thee to her o-lowino; brotherhood. 
 
THE SE:NTINEL and I. 85 i 
 
 THE SENTINEL AND I. 
 
 Sentinel ! Sentinel ! 
 
 Sentinel tall ! 
 Pacing so quietly 
 
 On the high wall, 
 Tell me, I pray. 
 
 Whatever sight 
 Comes to your watchful eyes 
 
 This silver night. 
 Tell me if ghostly 
 
 Torments assail. 
 Tell me if wolfish 
 
 Voices bewail, 
 Tell me if battle 
 
 Urges its ply. 
 Tell me whate'er you see 
 
 In the white sky ! 
 
 First Reply — 
 
 I see a peaceful A^alley lying, 
 
 Hucrcrlncr close a crystal stream, 
 A maiden, too, seems gently sighing 
 
 To the borders of a dream ; 
 
86 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 Blue her eyes — Her fond soul trembling 
 
 Forth, in many a moonlight gem ; 
 Lips, whose blush (all charms resembling,) 
 
 Tells me love-words hano; on them. 
 Fair her form, — her bosom swelling 
 
 Gently with the joys of peace. 
 That up to her eyes are welling 
 
 From a bosom's soft release ; 
 And I see the streamlet winding 
 
 Through the landscape's lovely scene, 
 And a rapture I am finding 
 
 In the beauty of the scene. 
 Now she sinks with dove-like slumbering, 
 
 While a sigh the soft air stirs, 
 For a band of angels, numbering 
 
 Like to our Christ's ministers, 
 Float above her, sweetly sounding 
 
 Lutes whose harmonies unite 
 With the voices now surrounding 
 
 To instil a keen delight ; 
 And they leave her now with singing, 
 
 (May such rich tones never cease.) 
 And the song they sing comes bringing 
 
 These deep words : " This, this is peace," 
 And the woods around are ringing 
 
 With the whispered words of peace, — 
 " This is the vale of Peace, 
 And this the maid of Peace." 
 
 Thank you, sir Sentinel, 
 Sentinel tall ! 
 
THE SENTINEL AND I. 87 
 
 Pacing so solemnly 
 
 On the high wall ; 
 Throwing a shadow down 
 
 Awfully nigh, 
 Showing your form against 
 
 Yon deepening sky. 
 Thank you, good Sentinel, 
 
 Tallest of men ! 
 Tell me what now you see, 
 
 Look up agahi ! 
 Find me some reason, 
 
 By the moon's light. 
 Why you are pacing thus 
 
 Through the lone; nio-ht ! 
 
 Second Reply. — 
 
 Ah ! there is the valley and there the stream 
 
 That lately I was praising, 
 But the stream is a running pool of blood 
 
 And the valley is all blazing. 
 The trees and tlie fruits, fair flowers, the grass. 
 
 Are seized with a vast decaying, 
 While the heated, open-mouthed earth, alas ! 
 
 On the blood of men is preying. 
 With a deadly impulse brothers meet. 
 
 On a sister soil contending, 
 While the parent weeps o'er her hope's defeat, 
 
 For the land she has ceased defending. 
 A monster appears by the bloody stream. 
 
 Every nerve and muscle straining, 
 
88 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 As he stalks around with a deathly gleam 
 
 And fire his red face veinin^r. 
 Now ! now he has seized a shrinking maid 
 
 That from his wrath was fleeing, 
 Now he wipes anew his gory blade 
 
 To murder that helpless being ; 
 And now she falls on her woman knees, 
 
 For a few days more appealing, 
 Now a lifting cloud of smoke she sees, 
 
 A friendly host revealing ; 
 And the monster, assailed on every side, 
 
 A refuo;e now is seekino; ; 
 He startles the moving, glistening tide 
 
 With his loud and horrid shrieking. 
 His yells and the shouts and the musketry 
 
 Of the armies now engao-ino;, 
 And the crackling flames and the hissing tree 
 
 Tell me a battle is raging. 
 From flame and from hiss, from yell and from 
 shout, 
 
 A voice on my ear is preying. 
 It rises above the thunders about. 
 The screams of the battle's deadly rout. 
 " This is war," the voice is saying, 
 
 " This is war," is echoed in valleys, 
 Over the tones of praying ; 
 
 " This is war," is told on the mountains 
 Wherever a shepherd is straying. 
 
 This is why on the granite ramparts 
 On guard to-night I am staying. 
 
THE SENTINEL AND I. 89 
 
 Thank you, good Sentinel, 
 
 Tallest of men ! 
 Tell me more, Sentinel, 
 
 Look up again ! 
 Ask the blue heavens 
 
 Once more to send. 
 Pictures to show you, 
 
 When war will end. 
 
 Third Reply. — 
 Again do I see the valley and stream, 
 
 Enclosino; 
 A village, all fresh in morning's first beam 
 
 Reposing ; 
 I see too the emblem of liberty 
 
 So endearino'. 
 
 o 
 
 Hail ! hail to its folds, the flag of the free 
 
 Is appearing. 
 The old stars and stripes, oh, ne'er may they cease 
 
 Glorj mviting. 
 
 Till treason is crushed 'neath the heel of a peace, 
 
 Heaven alightincr. i 
 
 Glory to God for it. 
 Sentinel, shout ! 
 
 Glory to God for it. 
 Let us both shout ! 
 
 Glory to the highest I 
 Amen ! 
 
90 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 Good night, sir Sentinel, 
 Let us both pray, 
 
 But " Glory to God " is all, 
 All I can say. 
 
 Glory to God for it ! 
 
 God bless McClellan ! 
 Glory to God ! 
 Amen ! 
 
SONNET ON A PEBBLE 91 
 
 SONNET ON A PEBBLE, 
 
 TAKEN FROM THE GRAVE OF STEPHEN A. DOUGLAS. 
 
 Weep, heart, at relic of the wondrous great ! 
 
 In whom command w^Ith music tones was blent, 
 Who seized his powder from the hand of fate. 
 
 And dealt in eloquence divinely sent. 
 Stilled is the voice that thrilled the Senate hall, 
 
 Stilled is the hand held forth in mercy's cause. 
 Stilled is the heart that from the sky did fall 
 
 To teach the grandest sovereignty of laws. 
 If but a simple uninscribed stone 
 
 Starts from the eye the full unbidden tear, 
 How vastly more would be the worship shown. 
 
 If his true, great, immortal self were here. 
 Oh, Douglas ! death thy glory elevates. 
 For lo ! thy resting place o'ertops the States. 
 
92 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 ODE TO THE WAILING DOGS. 
 
 I. 
 
 What meant the bhie of that meagre light, 
 In the quiet depths of yonder room, 
 And the solemn emblems of woful gloom, 
 As I looked on the fated house last night ? 
 What meant that moan. 
 In an undertone, 
 That came from the window over the street ? 
 And the sudden throb 
 Of that wailful sob 
 As it shot through my ears like a demon fleet ! 
 
 And why were the shutters almost closed ? 
 And why was the crape on the silent door ? 
 'Twas because a being who once reposed 
 Within yon room shall repose no more ; 
 
 Save only a rest which none can escape. 
 That quiet which comes when the pulse is fled. 
 Ah ! that is the cause of the swinging crape 
 Ah ! truly and bitterly some one is dead. 
 Yes ! one of the choicest of spirits has fled. 
 That ever a family circle knew. 
 Ah I bitterly true, 
 One of that household is cold and dead. 
 
ODE TO THE WAILING DOGS. 93 
 
 II. 
 
 Ah ! what was that howllno- the niorht before last. 
 That I heard from the setting of sun to the morn, 
 That through tlie long night such an echo cast 
 That it seemed the revels, ghosted forlorn. 
 Of suffering spirits blighted and torn? 
 That startled it seemed forever. 
 With its sharp infernal quiver 
 Dipped in some saturnal river 
 The pulsations of that night. 
 With such a dismal groan. 
 That my soul grew sick of the long afright 
 And each piercing shriek then seemed my own. 
 
 III. 
 
 Now, now I remember, it has often been said 
 That ere a spirit of man has fled, 
 That a dog will under the window creep. 
 Where the suffering body labors to sleep 
 At night, and rend the air with his song 
 Of myriad howls, keen meanings and long. 
 Why is the brute so endowed with sense. 
 
 To know beforehand when to grieve ? 
 Why should he waft a spirit hence, 
 
 And we in a death so disbelieve ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 And now I know why I creep to-night. 
 With the dull, damp chill of a dizzy fright, 
 As I list to the howls of the storm without, 
 
94 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 As I list to the moans of tlie brutes about. 
 The sun to-day, nor martial, nor proud, 
 Planted a red and sickening dearth, 
 On the joyous gush of my rising mirth, 
 And left a robe of storm-like cloud, 
 To embrace the form of the darkened earth. 
 Oh, list to the moaning catalogues ! 
 Which prey upon the ear, 
 And fill tlie heart with fear. 
 Sounding far, and sounding near, 
 As they wail their souls away, 
 Making me like statue clay. 
 And I wish 'twere dawn of day. 
 Oh, the moaning 
 And the m-oanino; 
 Of the bed-forsaking dogs. 
 Of the dread awakino; dogs. 
 
 And (me is a kind of suffering groan, 
 And one a kind of a sobbing moan. 
 And one starts up like a shriek of affright 
 And sounds unto the ears of the night. 
 
 Like the crack of a bursting zone. 
 While one is a deep entrrnnpeted sigh, 
 And one a fond and sorrowing cry, 
 That steals away to the dusky sky. 
 
 Following perhaps his master home. 
 Oh, who can tell me the reason why, 
 
 These voices madly come ? 
 
ODE TO THE WAILING DOGS. 95 
 
 These strainino;s, 
 
 And complainings 
 Of the sin inspiring dogs, 
 Of those inexpiring dogs ; 
 
 These throbbino-s. 
 
 And the sobbings, 
 Of the fever sendino' doo;s, 
 Of the never endino; doo;s, 
 
 • Why do tliey madly come ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Now over rills, and clover hills, 
 Come these maddenino- saddenino; ills ; 
 From sorrel sheaves, and laurel leaves 
 A leaping, creeping mystery, weaves, 
 Its horrid game 
 Of torrid flame. 
 With its list of memories ever the same 
 O'er every part of my weeping heart 
 
 Tliat beats in this panting frame. 
 In the far off distance, 
 By the sharp assistance, 
 Of a quivering ear, and a shivering fear, 
 Such sounds I hear, 
 That they make me think 
 Till I ache and sink, 
 That they are the shrieking voices fled. 
 From the tombs of the doubly damned dead ; 
 Who once in a hundred centuries. 
 Are allowed to tell their injuries, 
 
96 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 And revel in moon-stricken vagaries 
 Without interdiction. 
 And now in the thundered screamings 
 Comes the woe of a thousand dreamings, 
 Of Satan's infliction, 
 In the clashing of the teeth, 
 In the o-nashino; of the teeth, 
 In the chillings,and the thrillingSj 
 Of the heart a wringing dogs, 
 Of the dart a-flinging dogs. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Where never a breath is, 
 There ever a death is. 
 Be it in gloomy deserted hall, 
 Be it on roomy, mould-skirted wall, 
 Be it in swamp. 
 
 Or be it in fen. 
 Be it in camp. 
 Or be it in men. 
 Be it in forest or be it in lair. 
 Be it on crag-top, jagged and bare. 
 Be it on ocean, waveless and glossy. 
 Be it on battle-field, graveless and moss}', 
 Be it in fear moans. 
 
 Be it hi brave souls. 
 Be it in dear tones. 
 Be it in grave holes. 
 Be it 'mong people under the earth, 
 The things of the roving air, 
 
ODE TO THE WAILING DOGS. 97 
 
 It comes with a chill to freeze our mirth, 
 
 Like the iceberg touch of care. 
 And so do these nio;ht air demao-oo-ues. 
 Those eternal nightmare giving dogs, 
 Chill with the doeful news. 
 Breathed on the breath of dampful dews. 
 That some one is dead. 
 Some loved one is dead, 
 That many are dead. 
 Many loved ones are dead. 
 And the heart grows sad with the doleful news, 
 That comes in the sighing, 
 That comes in the crying. 
 Of the fear caressino; doo-s. 
 Of the ear oppressing dogs. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Oh, why do so many howl to-night ? 
 Has a battle been fought, 
 That so many evil threats are fraught. 
 
 With the tones of death and blight ? 
 
 Has vile disease wild scattered his damp 
 
 O'er the soldier on guard, on the march, or in camp ? 
 
 Has a fever usurped the pulses bold, 
 
 Until their forms are a lying cold ? 
 
 Has thirst, starvation, or accident. 
 
 Stolen many a soul from its tenement ? 
 
 Have many been shot for orders ignored ? 
 
 Or drowned while passing a river's ford ? 
 
 Or poisoned by an enemy spy ? 
 5 
 
98 BALLADS OF THE WAR. : 
 
 Or killed by a bursting missile nigli ? ] 
 
 Or have they died in a lingering fit ? \ 
 
 Or fallen by murderous comrade hit ? j 
 
 Or shattered by a magazine blast ? ] 
 
 Or crisped by hot shot rebel cast ? " • 
 
 That so many dogs should be pining, i 
 
 That so many dogs should be whining, : 
 
 That the heedless baying dogs, 1 
 
 That the needless staying dogs, ! 
 
 That the chills a-breeding dogs, j 
 
 That the ills a-feeding dogs, J 
 
 Should be howling, ; 
 
 And be growling, i 
 
 With their tear a-wringing woes, J 
 
 With their ear a-stinging woes ? 
 
 IX. \ 
 
 Still, still their moans in my ears I find, i 
 
 Still, still they banish sleep, j 
 What can I do but weep, 
 While my pulses curdle and creep. 
 
 While ihei/ still shriek to the howling wind ? ; 
 
 Oh ! list to the wailful catalogue, ] 
 That on my heart with a Condor clutch. 
 
 And the cold chill of an adder touch | 
 
 Sit with a leaden sway. j 
 
 And the ghosten spell-bound dogs, | 
 
 And the coasten hell-hound dogs, | 
 
 Glooms the coming of the day. ,i 
 
 Oh, ye breast annoying dogs ! : 
 
 I 
 
ODE TO THE WAILING DOGS. 99 
 
 Oh, ye rest-destroying dogs ! 
 
 Take your tireless throats away, 
 Ere maddened I turn gray, 
 And thouMit becomes tlie rackino; brain whirl's 
 prey. 
 
100 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 WHAT OUR WILLIE WOULD DO. 
 
 Would you be a soldier, Willie ? 
 
 And with the army go 
 To protect your country's flag, boy, 
 
 And whip the upstart foe ? 
 Would you, boy ? 
 
 Could you hold a musket, Willie, 
 
 For hours in the line ? 
 Could you wield a sword in battle, boy, 
 
 With those tiny hands of thine ? 
 Could you, boy ? 
 
 Would you know a rebel, Willie, 
 If you saw him in the night ? 
 
 Would you know his dress and looks, boy, 
 With those little eyes so bright ? 
 Would you, boy ? 
 
 Could you march a whole day, Willie, 
 Through sand and woods and mire ? 
 
WHAT OUR WILLIE WOULD DO. 101 
 
 Through heat, and cold, and wet, boy, 
 And your little feet ne'er tire ? 
 Could you, boy ? 
 
 Would you not grow faint, my Willie ? 
 
 And your little post resign ? 
 Would you not grow sick and sore, boy, 
 
 With a frame so frail as thine ? 
 Would you not ? 
 
 Willie's Eeply. — 
 
 Yes, I wish I were a soldier, 
 
 With a plumed hat of taste, 
 And a sword upon my side, Whit. ! 
 
 And a sash around my waist. 
 I would go into the South, sir, 
 
 And make a deal of noise, 
 Then draw out my little sword, Whit. , 
 And fight the little hoys. 
 Yes, I could. 
 And I would. 
 
102 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 THE UNITED STATES BLACKSMITH SHOP. 
 
 St. Tristam rules the army, 
 
 McClellan is a rogue, 
 For lie allows that wickedness 
 
 In camps is much in vogue. 
 
 By strictest regulations, 
 
 He tires many felloes, 
 And then he tries to raise the wind. 
 
 By working at a Bellows. 
 
 And then he drafts a workman, 
 
 A musketeer or rammer. 
 And never checks the action 
 
 Of forgino; with a hammer. 
 
 His army for his presence 
 
 No gratitude e'er feels, 
 Because, on his compulsion. 
 
 They made so many " wheels." 
 
 Himself can take the gilt off 
 Any jockey on the course, 
 
THE UNITED STATES BLACKSMITH SHOP. 103 
 
 Because lie can so daintily, 
 And often, slioe a horse. 
 
 His workmen are a species 
 
 Of thieves, (I speak in fun). 
 Because you see they're guilty 
 
 Of often steeling iron. 
 
 At Bull's Run they were cowards. 
 
 And well-nigh lost a steak ; 
 McDowell made a fire, 
 
 The rebels made a " break.' 
 
 McClellan has a fashion 
 
 Of smiling iron smiles, 
 And he takes the rebel's brass off 
 
 By using of his files. 
 
 He saves his own head cutely. 
 
 Though not all through fear, 
 And gives the enemy a slap, 
 
 By falling' on his rear. 
 
 Oh wonderful effort of sienius ! 
 
 Oh stubborn mettle of will ! • 
 "What can excel the thrilling; feat ? 
 
 He puts a file throngh a drill! 
 
 What need, when so many workmen 
 His shops are teeming with — 
 
104 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 What need, I say, of anotlier, 
 And he, a General Smith ? — 
 
 Who has a system of working, 
 As every General should, — 
 
 He nails the rebels by driving 
 Their soldiers into the ivood. 
 
 • Success to our Smithy so clever ! 
 
 His danger he truly feels, 
 
 For under " cover " he places 
 
 A body subject to wheels. 
 
 Instead of giving the rebels, 
 Which ne'er their coffer fills, 
 
 Hard dollars and cents, he gives them 
 Nothing but gunpowder mills. 
 
 Success to our army and navy, — 
 
 A blessing I invoke. 
 That none of the fires they ever make, 
 
 May ever end in smoke. 
 
THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. 105 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. 
 
 See tlie solemn pacings, pacings, 
 Of tlie people as they mourn, 
 
 See the grief-pale facings, facings, 
 Of the soldiers all forlorn ; 
 
 See them pacing to the vault, 
 
 See them facing to the vault, 
 
 To the cold, eternal vault, 
 
 To the sad and dripping vault ; 
 
 Where the many mazy tracings 
 On the mould upon the wall. 
 
 And the web-like interlacings 
 Of the worm trails on the wall. 
 The damp and glistening tracings 
 
 Cover coffins, bones and pall, 
 
 Cover stones and mould and all. 
 
 And the heavy sighings, sighings. 
 Shaking every anxious frame, 
 
 And the soul-throb cryings, cryings. 
 Starting like a smothered flame, 
 Writhing like a pent-up flame. 
 
106 THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. 
 
 Like a blasting, chilling flame 
 From tlie caverns of the dead, , 
 With a dreadful lustre shed, 
 Speak the never-ending fame 
 
 Of the illustrious dead ! 
 Speaking with a gasping breath 
 Of the fiery hand of death, 
 Speaking with a broken voice, 
 Of the nation's stricken choice. 
 
 And when we strain our eyes 
 Along the street of sighs, 
 Naught but mourning signs we see, 
 Naught but warning sighs we hear, 
 Naught but earthly sorrow comes ; 
 For the voices of the drums. 
 Muffling with their solemn beats, 
 Our souls up in their beats, 
 The chant-like moaning beats, 
 Of the muffled rolling drums, 
 Chills on every living breath. 
 With the solemn thought of death ; 
 Saying, every living breath, 
 Must soon prepare for death. 
 
BEN BRONT'S RETUIBUTION. iqj . 
 
 i 
 
 BEN BRONX'S RETRIBUTION. 
 
 All day the surging battle's roar, 
 
 And dreadful havoc's ply, 
 Had rolled upon the shivering earth. 
 
 One great heart-rending cry ; 
 From bleeding bosoms faintly came 
 
 Life's separating sigh. 
 
 One Captain still unwearied fights. 
 
 Still leads his company, 
 Now heading in the dangerous van, 
 
 Now^ halting steadily. 
 While rifle, bomb, and cannon ball. 
 
 Fall fast and greedily. 
 
 One man still hugs his rifle close, 
 
 Still presses to the front. 
 Still watches for the moment when 
 
 No eyes but his are on't ; 
 And then that stain shall be wiped out, 
 
 The man is brave Ben Bront. 
 
108 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 Around full many wounded men 
 
 In bloody garments lay, 
 Some clutching tight their muskets bright, 
 
 As though their strength to try ; 
 Some glaring at the upraised hoof 
 
 With terror in their eye. 
 
 Some leaning on one elbow, pale 
 
 As any coffined shroud, 
 With parched lips and dull, white tongue, 
 
 Moan out a prayer aloud. 
 That He, the God of battles, will 
 
 Remove this bloody cloud. 
 
 Some grown mad with the angry fang 
 That teethes upon their brain, 
 
 Howl forth in curses, that no ease 
 Comes for the storm of pain. 
 
 That gives each nerve consuming pangs, 
 Which makes them howl ao-ain. 
 
 o 
 
 While others, with their limbs shot off, j 
 
 A little water crave ; i 
 
 While others, sightless, bite the earth, ' 
 And call on it to save, — 
 
 Ne'er thinking if that succor comes, j 
 
 It comes but in the grave. ; 
 
 But see the charge ! — Oh, yonder battery, j 
 With it's terrific fire. 
 
BEN BRONT'S RETBIBUTION. 109 
 
 Has long enough it's thunder-doom of death 
 
 Pronounced on son and sire, 
 Has long enough seethed forth in hellish sport, 
 
 Annihilation dire. 
 
 Ben mutters to himself — " my time has come. 
 
 And so, I think, is his. 
 Farewell then crino-elino; ! " now it is " take aim." 
 
 Now " fire," and fire it is. — 
 " By heaven ! I've hit him, — yes, he falls ! " — 
 
 One leaps the reins to seize. 
 
 But Ben with deeper aim springs forth 
 
 Nor thinks he of remorse 
 To him who, with one sickening swoon, 
 
 Reels dead-like from his horse ; 
 Who soon will answer for his crimes 
 
 Within Ben's arms, a corse. 
 
 And then Ben's comrade and himself. 
 
 The Captain quickly bore 
 To yonder tree, and begged the shade. 
 
 Far from the cannon's roar; 
 While all the while the Captain's face 
 
 A rigid, death-look wore. 
 
 " Here's water. Captain, rouse thee, man I 
 
 Nay, let it not be said 
 That you succumbed to the first touch 
 
 Of dull and lifeless lead : 
 
110 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 Come, rouse tliee, Captain ! nor put on 
 That look of the clammy dead. 
 
 " Run, comrade ! pray the surgeon find, 
 
 He bids thee with his moan ; 
 I've plenty here to ease his pain. 
 
 Go ! I will stay alone. 
 And bathe the hot and swollen neck, 
 
 Perchance 'twill check a groan." 
 
 The soldier started at full speed 
 
 The mission to perform ; 
 The Captain slowly ope'd his eyes. 
 
 His cheeks grew slowly warm ; 
 And Ben sat sternly waiting for 
 
 The rising of the storm. — 
 
 A sad, sad thought, the soul of which 
 
 Was moulded by despair. 
 Stood in the brimful vacancy 
 
 Of that unsteady stare. 
 As looking up, the Captain speaks, 
 
 " Where am I ? tell me, where ? " 
 
 " Not far from where the bloody work, — 
 
 Nayi do not seek to rise ! 
 I'll tell thee all, — that charge is made. 
 
 The enemy now flies ; 
 But, Captain, fainter still thy breath. 
 
 And glassier seem thy eyes," 
 
BEN BRONX'S RETRIBUTION. Ill 
 
 " No ! no ! I'm strong yet, yet fearing much — 
 
 Are we alone, — are we ? 
 I'm very weak — my neck it burns ! 
 
 Can'st thou a wound e're see ? — 
 But yet this blood, that trickles down. 
 
 It must belong to me ! " 
 
 " Yes, Captain, yes ! a great deep wound 
 
 B}^MinieballIfind; 
 All through the neck it must have gone. 
 
 On it my sash I'll bind. 
 But, strange to say, the murderous ball 
 
 Did enter from behind. 
 
 " Hast thou no message to a friend, 
 
 Whom for thy fate will weep ? 
 No lovino; wife within whose arms 
 
 Thoud'st wish to fall asleep ? 
 If so, make haste ! e'en now I see, 
 
 Death's tremors on thee creep." 
 
 " Yes !" faintly said the dying man, 
 
 " My Ellen ] " gasped he, " You 
 Will remember me to her. 
 
 And give my fond adieu." 
 " Thy Ellen, sir !" cried Ben " is't so ? 
 
 Hast thou an Ellen, too ? 
 
 " Yes, yes, a dear one, tell her where 
 I died, and tell her how, 
 
112 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 With demon hands upon my neck ' 
 
 But an angel's on my brow. 
 And tell her that I always loved, 
 
 And still do love her now." : 
 
 " I'll tell her Captain, all, and faithfully, ] 
 
 And start ere close of day. ' 
 
 Is it not strange that we two are alone, ■ ^ 
 Both powerless to pray ? . j 
 
 Bethink thee. Captain, is there nothing more, 
 
 That thou would' st like to say ? | 
 
 " Yes, yes — my boy, four summers old, I 
 
 With curly golden hair — j 
 
 His portrait — ^her's too — fondly clasped 4 
 
 I, in my bosom bear, t 
 
 Pray take them out and say to her j 
 
 I loved to have them there." ] 
 
 " I'll tell her Captain, all and faithfully, ; 
 
 But yet I do repine, 
 
 Tliat whil'st thy Ellen is so favored with ; 
 
 Warm sentiments and fine, ^ ' 
 
 That in thy dying rhapsodies ; 
 
 Thou hast forgotten mine.^^ '■ 
 
 "Thine — what of thine? " the dying moaned. < 
 
 Said Ben, "I much regret \ 
 
 That thou, who once did vow to love, | 
 
 Could thus so soon forget, j 
 
BEN BRONX'S RETRIBUTION 113 
 
 My wife^ whose ruin once ye sought, 
 Told me, my rage to whet." 
 
 "I'll tell thy Ellen of that too, 
 
 And with a horrid glee, 
 I'll say it was my bullet, sir, 
 
 That set thy spirit free. 
 So much sir, for thy freedom with, 
 
 The wife who clings to me." 
 
 " No, no ! not that, thou demon brute, 
 
 Nor think that yet I'll die. 
 Beware thee, fiend ! for I intend 
 
 Thy boasted strength to try. 
 By heavens, are my weapons gone ? 
 
 I thought I had them nigh." 
 
 "Ah, ha ! " cried Ben, " don't think I'd trust, 
 
 My life in hands of thine, 
 I took the pistols from thy belt. 
 
 And put them into mine. 
 Ah, ha ! my Captain, did I right 
 
 To put them into mine ? " 
 
 The Captain Avith a savage howl. 
 
 Of dreadful hate and pain. 
 Rushed towards Ben, and blindly kicked, 
 
 And yelled and struck again ; 
 While all the time a bloody stream. 
 
 Gushed from his neck, amain. 
 
114 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 At last "upon the grassy ground, 
 His spenten form he threw, 
 
 Gnawed till he died a Beech en tree, 
 That very near him grew ; 
 
 While the guns of the distant battle, 
 Roared a terrible adieu. 
 
 " Dead, dead ! " said Ben, " I forgive him. \ 
 
 His, now is a sacred trust, i 
 
 His last request was so loving, ' 
 
 So tender a charge, that I must." ' 
 
 Ben took out the portraits, and kissed them, 
 And dropped a tear in the dust. 
 
THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 115 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO THE THREE MONTHS' VOLUNTEERS. 
 
 Home again I and hearts are lightened, 
 
 From the dusks of war emerOTno- : 
 All the clouds of love are tiohtened. 
 
 To the bonds eternal vermno-. 
 Songs that late were sung in sadness 
 
 To employ the gloomy hour, 
 Burst with chorus full of gladness, 
 
 To the height of gushing power. 
 
 Home again ! with hands uplifted, • 
 
 The wife a song to God is wreathing, 
 While her eager eye is gifted 
 
 With the honeyed words, love's wreathing 
 And her form is now encircled. 
 
 With the brawny arms and strong. 
 And her lips are now enpurpled. 
 
 With a hearty kiss and long. 
 
 Home again ! with hands united. 
 In a lisping circle forming. 
 
116 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 With panting bosoms, eyes all lighted, 
 To welcome from the battles storming, 
 
 A father dear, from States benighted. 
 Where treason's folly sways each hour. 
 
 But whose troops shall start affrighted. 
 When is hurled the bolts of power. 
 
 Home again ! the lonely -hearted 
 
 Unkinned soldier, sadly peering 
 On the scenes which late had started 
 
 All the throbs for charms endearing. 
 Moves along, no home invites him, 
 
 Workshops empty, men complaining, 
 Nauo;ht there is of love excites him. 
 
 None but dins of wars remainincr. 
 
 &' 
 
 Ah, the leaping forms all trembling, 
 
 Good right hands so keenly wringing, 
 Tell us there is no dissembling. 
 
 No reojret a shade is flinmno;. 
 All around some consolation. 
 
 To his asking soul is starting. 
 Of those friends, whose deep laudation, 
 
 Has repaid the woe of parting. 
 
 Home again ! and souls are freighted. 
 With an interest each exciting. 
 
 And the eyes that long have waited 
 Glisten with a joyous lighting : 
 
THE SOLDI l;R'S RETURN. 117 
 
 Panels across the heart have started, 
 When the thoughts of battle come, 
 
 But the blood of joy has started, 
 For the soldier now is home. 
 
 THE SOLDIER LOVER'S PARTING. 
 
 Come, strike a hand with mine, love ! 
 
 Come, strike a hand with mine ; 
 And let the warm beats of this breast 
 
 Now nestle into thine. 
 For I see a tear of sorrow, love, 
 
 Doth in thy soft eyes shine. 
 So let us strike our hands, love. 
 
 Come strike a hand with mine ! 
 
 Come, press your lips to mine, love. 
 
 Come, press your lips to mine ; 
 And with one voice we'll ask of Him 
 
 Supporting grace divine, 
 A soul of light so holy, love. 
 
 Now in thine eye doth shine, 
 I feel its warm breath on the lips 
 
 Now pressed so close to mine ! 
 
lis BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 JOY TO THE DEAD. \ 
 
 INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF THAT GALLANT SOL- 
 DIER, ELMER E. ELLSWORTH. , 
 
 Oh, see ye tliat lady a-mourning, i 
 
 Over the grassless mound, ] 
 
 The eyes of the world a-scorning, 1 
 
 In the depths of her grief profound ? ;< 
 
 Oh, see ye the hands that are wringing, ; 
 
 Dipped deeply in sorrow's cup ? 
 Oh, see ye the love that is clinging ? 
 
 The tears that the earth drinks up ? 
 Do you hear that terrible throbbing ? — 
 
 Ye may well, for still is the air ; ; 
 
 Do ye list to the painful throbbing 'I 
 
 That comes from the lady there ? \ 
 
 Then down on your knees for giving ] 
 
 A prayer to the king of the dead, 1 
 
 And these righteous words be giving, 
 
 " Peace to the solemn dead. i 
 
 And peace to the sorrowful living, < 
 
 And peace to the soldier dead." - 
 
JOY TO THE DEAD. 119 
 
 What, if tliat voice should reach him ? 
 
 What, if that grief he shoiihl know? 
 W^hat,if those tears should teach him, 
 
 The States are sorrowing so ? 
 AVhat,if our prayers should move him, 
 
 To believe in a deathless name ? 
 To believe that the States now love him. 
 
 As one of Immortal fame ? 
 Would his eyes not start with a gushing flame ? 
 
 And his heart renew its fire ? 
 Would his frame not pant as of old, the same ? 
 
 And his lofty soul aspire ? 
 
 Do the dead ever weep. 
 
 In that solemn sleep ? I 
 
 Do touches of life through their body creep, 1 
 
 If words of love 
 Come to their ears from the world above ? j 
 
 Do the dreadful woes • 
 
 Of stricken foes, ■: 
 
 Ever make them smile in their deep repose ? ] 
 
 Do the joys confessed, i 
 
 In a dear friend's breast 
 Make them content in the coffin's rest ? \ 
 
 Who, who of the living can ever know, ; 
 
 If these unearthly things are so ? \ 
 
 Ah, if we knew ] 
 
 It were only true, 
 That after this little breath were gone, j 
 
120 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 And over our forms were planted a stone, 
 We should know indeed 
 Whose heart would bleed, 
 Whose voice would utter the keenest moan 
 
 That we were gone, 
 Perhaps we would look more friendly on death, 
 Nor struggle so terribly. 
 Nor writhe so horribly, 
 To retain yet longer our waning breath. 
 But no one can tell. 
 If a heart will swell 
 With the pangs of grief, 
 Or if eyes will pour 
 Their briny store. 
 In sorrow's relief; 
 And so we avoid 
 The terrible nod 
 Of Him who places us under the sod, 
 And shudder and moan. 
 And struggle and groan 
 And sometimes curse. 
 If a thought of the hearse 
 Comes bearing us off to the grave alone. 
 
 But the lustre shed. 
 From the soldier dead. 
 Tells over his form. 
 There comes a storm 
 Of national wailing, 
 
JOY TO THE DEAD. 121 
 
 When the tear-capped clouds are splendidly reft, 
 And his .beaming glory, alone, is left, 
 
 In the sun's rays unfailing ; 
 And the living shall share with the dead the fame. 
 Immortal honor sheds on Ellsworth name. 
 
122 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 A LAMENT FROM FORT LAFAYETTE. 
 
 Cold blows the wind across the bay, 
 
 And how it hums about 
 The casements, all this dreary day, 
 
 To check each purposed shout ! 
 List ! how it moans again — I fear 
 
 That I must soon resign it ; 
 I dread to know its presence here, 
 
 Lest Lincoln should confine it ! 
 
 I gaze out on tke hazy sea 
 
 With such a longing eye, 
 I see the birds so lithe and free 
 
 Between me and the sky. 
 A drifting log, yon frigate black, 
 
 The giddy, floundering fish — 
 All, all are free ; but I, alack. 
 
 For freedom can but wish. 
 
 'Tis true, I would have done a wrong 
 To that flag waving o'er me, 
 
A LAMENT FROM FORT LAFAYETTE. 123 
 
 And stabbed tbe hand so fond and strong, 
 
 That unto riches bore me. 
 But yet I scarcely think it's fair 
 
 Such rigid walls should bind me ; 
 Oh ! had I wings to cleave the air, 
 
 Soon would they gleam behind me. 
 
 But farewell, Freedom ! till these wars 
 
 Have ceased their bloody reign ; 
 Perhaps,! yet shall heaven's stars 
 
 Hail in my home again. 
 Farewell, my deeds in Honor's name ! 
 
 My heart's ambitious swell ! 
 But thou of very life, the flame, 
 
 Sweet Freedom ! still, farewell ! 
 
124 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 THE GRAVE DIGGER OF MANASSAS 
 
 AT MIDNIGHT. ^ 
 
 I 
 
 Eighteen hours to-day again ! , 
 
 Eighteen hours to-day - 
 
 Have I toiled at this dismal business, ] 
 
 Till I'm almost worked to craziness, : 
 
 Hiding the motionless clay ; ■ 
 
 And hundreds are unburied yet, ' 
 
 And my muscles are stiff and clammy, and wet — • \ 
 
 Oh, for a streak of restful day ! ,; 
 
 Eighteen hours to-day again ! 
 
 Eighteen hours to-day, \ 
 
 Have I piled in together my foe, and my friend, j 
 
 And yet seem no nearer my labor's end i 
 
 Than I was at the morn's first ray ; , 
 Tossing into the ground my kind, 
 
 Until I am sick, and almost blind, . 
 
 Yet not a Avord dare say. 
 
 Just now a shade from the moon came down, i 
 
 Seeming to cast a deep, sullen frown, 1 
 
 And I weep on my spade my soul away. 
 
THE GRAVE DIGGER OF MANASSAS. 125 
 
 Can ever a God-hope brighten this scene, 
 Brighten this dark and gloomy ravine ? 
 Or the sun, witli a special ray ? 
 
 Eighteen hours to-day again! 
 
 Eighteen hours to-day ; 
 And I still must dig, spite the pain at my side, 
 If only yon gaping corpses to hide. 
 
 The battle's hideous prey. 
 Just now a chill o'er my frame did creep, 
 I fear I must, though I dread to sleep, ■ 
 
 Though there's none alive to betray. 
 Hark ! to the moanings filling the air. 
 Seeming to come from yon shadows there, 
 
 Of spectres, of green and gray. 
 And yet ! oh yet ! I am not done 
 Though some distant clock is striking one ! — 
 
 When can I stop to pray ? 
 
 There's the fiftieth man I have put to his rest. 
 With his shrivelled hands folded over his breast, 
 
 In the tenderest way ; 
 And yet no relief! I fear I'm forgot, — 
 They have sent me here to die, and to rot ! 
 
 What a fearful game to play ! 
 But this half-covered form I'll let alone, 
 To search out the cause of that ghostly groan^ 
 
 Which thumps in my ears away ; 
 So I'll lay down the spade, and walk around. 
 
126 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 To search out the cause of the fearful sound 
 That seems just near me to stay ! 
 
 Eighteen hours to-day again ! 
 
 Eighteen hours to-day ! 
 Oh ! woukl I were back in my home, by the side 
 Of dear, blooming May, my loving young bride, 
 
 Who three weeks ago did say, 
 " Go forth, my pride, with a willing hand. 
 And help to defend our native land 
 
 From those who'd betray ! " 
 Pshaw ! these tears ! but look, look ! look there ! 
 At that fiery serpent, twisting in air ! 
 
 What weapon have I to slay ? 
 I'd take my spade, but 'tis covered with slime, 
 And my pick is used in* a work of crime, 
 
 ' Tis digging my brains away ! 
 
 And thick grows the air, with a murky green ; 
 Ha ! ha ! how I laugh, for I cannot be seen. 
 
 To be made the prey 
 Of that leaping, hissing demon there, — 
 Yet he comes ! now nearer ! mve me some air ! 
 
 How shall I get away ? 
 Nearer he comes ! is there no way to save ? 
 Ah, ha ! that last and but half-filled grave^ 
 
 In there I'll get and pray ; 
 Quickly I'll onward, he's coming so fast ! 
 The time for escape will soon be past. 
 
 And he will scorch me for jplay ! 
 
THE GRAVE DIGGER OF MANASSAS. 127 
 
 Now I am in ! — ugli ! what a cliill 
 Dwells in the body lying so still, 
 
 With him must I stay ^ 
 Throno'h the lono; niMit? Yes ! for that shout 
 Tells there's no time for turning him out, 
 
 He, the harmless clay. 
 Quickly, man ! in with the dirt ! — why so loth ? 
 Now there's enough to cover us both 
 
 If moveless we stay ; 
 Quick ! let us hide from the green flaming eye ; 
 Put your arm over me — so, as we lie ; 
 
 So, — let us pray 1 
 
 Why do you shake so ? boldly, good sir ! 
 There's a terrible risk in the least Httle stir, 
 
 Do you hear what I say ? 
 Do you think that I am at all afraid, 
 Because I am coldly, cozily laid 
 
 In this ravine away ? 
 
 Ah ! little thought I, when at work alone, 
 That the fiftieth grave I dug was my own ; 
 
 What a jest, I say ; 
 But mortals outside, as you but now said. 
 Know little of jokes, that start out of us dead, 
 
 When the demons are away. 
 
 But I grow very chilly ; pray spare me your coat, 
 And wrap your warm sash around my damp throat. 
 
128 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 Oh, liiiny, I pray ! 
 There now, I am reaclj, and I list the command, 
 It is God's saying, come to my beautiful land. 
 
 Good bye ! — I am marching awaj. 
 
ADDRESS TO A REBEL TOE NAIL. 129 
 
 ADDRESS TO A REBEL TOE NAIL, | 
 
 WHICH CAME FROM THE FOOT OF A SECESSIONIST WHO FOUGHT 
 AT SPRINGFIELD AND LEXINGTON. 
 
 Horny rascality ! ] 
 
 From a locality i 
 
 Where no hilarity , 
 
 Lio-htens the brain ; ! 
 
 Let me look at thee ! M 
 
 Sure sin begat thee ! = 
 Strove to enfat thee, 
 
 On rebel grain ! i 
 
 Dirty and grimy, | 
 Rugged and slimy ; 
 
 Fearfully nigh me, | 
 
 • Who was it bore thee ? \ 
 
 Smelling offensively, ; 
 
 Unpared extensively, : 
 
 Throwing expensively, i 
 
 Perfumes all o'er me ! j 
 
 What was it started thee ? 
 
 Who was it parted thee ? | 
 
 6* i 
 
130 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 Who was it carted thee 
 
 From thy dear toe ? 
 Was't sword stroke of Lyon, 
 Was't bullet too nigh on 
 The toe thou did'st die on ? 
 
 Oh ! What was thy woe ? 
 
 Did some foul diseasing, 
 With pains unappeasing. 
 Strive for the releasino; 
 
 Of thee from thy place ? 
 Did some huge man frantic, 
 In colossal antic, 
 In deed unromantic 
 
 Tread on thy face ? 
 
 Perhaps in a thicket. 
 When playing at " Picket " 
 Thy owner did'st kick it 
 
 Against some rude stump ; 
 Which (most likely story) 
 Taught him the glory 
 Of stump oratory 
 
 All in a lump. 
 
 Shade of Missouri ! 
 Fain I'd allure thee 
 With strains of " Pot Pouri " 
 
 But I desist me ! 
 Knowing thy feelings well. 
 
ADDRESS TO A REBEL TOE NAIL. 131 
 
 Scorning thy dealings well, 
 Hissing thy stealings well, 
 So I resist me ! 
 
 Solemn decaying, 
 On thee is weighing, 
 Heavily preying 
 
 On thy life's core ! 
 So all rebellious things, 
 Man, beast, (secessions things) 
 Shall be oblivious things, 
 
 Counting no more, 
 Than a dead stock in hand. 
 Than a crushed rock in hand, 
 Than a burnt block in hand, 
 
 Which none deplore. 
 Farewell ! grime of Hessian ! 
 Thou horn of oppression ! 
 Thou nail of secession ! 
 
 Thy mission is o'er. 
 
132 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 A PICTURE OF WAR. 1 
 
 Ere dread calamity became the star, \ 
 
 The ruling God of nations, and of War ; | 
 
 Ere the fleet steed loud snorting to the wind, 1 
 
 Plunged on the foe and never looked behind ;; j 
 
 Or ere with pious thrust, a reverend sire, j 
 
 Proved words of peace consort with deeds of fire ; { 
 
 Ere heaving tempests lurked in caves of brass ; ; 
 
 Or powder plots were ranged 'neath plains of grass ; ! 
 
 Ere armed vessels groaned on ocean's breath, \ 
 
 To lightning forth the thunder tone of death ; i 
 
 Ere tumult swung aloft its banner torn, : 
 
 And shrieked and swayed from gloomy morn to : 
 
 morn, \ 
 The world with tuneful cadences was filled, 
 
 In songs of praise all other sounds were stilled. ' 
 
 No voice of rage, in discords loud and shrill, 
 Piped its hot breath to breed a world of ill ; 
 No tones of envy, most malicious power ! 
 Scorched the fair day or gnawed upon the hour ; 
 
A PICTURE OF WAR. 133 
 
 No fragile form fled from the assassin's knife, 
 Or begged in piteous tones a harmless life ; 
 No giant stride of hate, no shrink of fear, 
 Ere blanched the cheek or palled upon the ear ; 
 No robber crept beneath the robes of night ; 
 No piles of treasure ached upon his sight ; 
 Fell Rumor ne'er engrossed the gossip's care, 
 No virtue known, because no vice was there ; 
 The placid world hailed to the heavens above, 
 And challenged her white face, for all was peace 
 and love. 
 
 Behold the spot where War colossal reigns, 
 On throne of fire, 'neath canopy of chains ; 
 His chieftains ranged about him, wait his nod. 
 Rage, pain, tears, rancour, torture, chilly sod. 
 Theft, violation, murder, endless harms. 
 With flaming eyeballs, and with ready arms. 
 Around him rise the black, uneven walls, 
 Decked o'er by demon skill, that sight appals ; 
 The walls themselves, the curious figures too. 
 The kingly throne, the horns the demons blew, 
 The numerous ratthng canopies of state. 
 The chairs on which the grim attendants wait, 
 The urns in which the dread recordings lie, 
 The dome all tapestried, the carvings nigh, 
 The furniture, the seeming Inlaid stones. 
 Were but a mass of w^rought up human bones, 
 And when the Thunderer speaks, as speak he will, 
 And bellows loudly " Slaves, go forth and kill," 
 
134 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 The walls grow cold as tliougli 'twere they to die, 
 And bone 'gainst bone, then chatters in reply. 
 
 In each dusk corner see a giant rise, 
 
 With bloody hands, and red-hot flaming eyes, 
 
 Eager to seize the the devastating brand, 
 
 And hurl destruction o'er a peaceful land ; 
 
 Half hid in chains, grown weak from mould and 
 
 rust, 
 And haijL' all gray with damp sepulchral dust, 
 As though just from a century's carouse 
 In some extended, aged, charnel house. 
 
 First came dark Hate with nervous, darting look 
 Which the soft eye of love could never brook, 
 Whose deeds are first on chronicles accurst. 
 With one tremendous wrench his chains he burst. 
 His pondrous head, herculean form 
 Nor fears the thunder and defies the storm ; 
 His voice a tempest, and each movement death. 
 Scorpions and snakes lie hidden in his breath. 
 And thus he stands, a bolt of smothered harms — 
 No weapon has he but his mighty arms. 
 Bends he full low his master to allure. 
 That he a bloodier mission may secure. 
 Anon the great commander speaks in tones. 
 That startle with aifrio-ht the rattlino; bones. 
 " Go forth thou minister of civil broil, 
 Range o'er the realms of gold the hut of toil, 
 Assail the planter in his sunny home, 
 
A PICTURE OF WAR. 135 
 
 Assail the merchant, 'neath his festive dome ; 
 By hasty act and venomed word of mouth, 
 Array the North 'gainst the feebler South ; 
 Embitter man 'gainst man, and will 'gainst will, 
 And soon I'll send a messenger to kill. 
 *' Avaunt ! and haste thee," straightway giant Hate 
 Howled an adieu, and never stopped to prate. 
 
 Next Bloodshed came ; all scarred and singed his 
 
 face. 
 As though by former deeds, he'd carved his place ; 
 Adown his arm the sword stroke furrows ran, 
 And all his limbs, the great seams deeply span ; 
 His eyebrows wore a black and rugged frown. 
 And from his mouth the blood-drops trickled down ; 
 Forth from his bloodshot eye, burst balls of fire, 
 That told of hellish deeds of vengeful ire. 
 
 No sooner had he shown his red- veined face. 
 Than his chains fell, blood-rusted from their place ; 
 He stamped and shook himself, as though to see 
 If all his functions were at liberty. 
 With a deep breath he made the place resound 
 And fell before his master with a bound. 
 
 " Hail sire ! potential God ! " he said ; 
 " At thy command I hither hasty speed ; 
 Released from fettered ease, I craving ask 
 That very soon thou'lt speak my baneful task." 
 
13G BALLADS OF THE Vv'AR. 
 
 " Give me thy hand, thou minister of blood ; " 
 And they embraced as kindred spirits should. 
 " Thy task it is the mighty sword to wield, 
 And scatter carnage on the battle-field ; 
 To fill with gaping wounds contending foes ; 
 To drown the national in domestic woes ; 
 To make the wolf draw nigh, the vulture stare, 
 At the big feast which thou wilt thus prepare. 
 Swing thy red sword until the vultures croak ; 
 Lop off the heads, a hundred at a stroke. 
 Until the earth, all sated with the gore 
 Rolls it away, refusing to drink more ; 
 Then hew, and hack, nor stop to talk or dream. 
 Till 'gins to swell like veins, each running stream ; 
 Nor cease thy work, till o'er the banks they flood. 
 And men, and land, and waters, all are blood." 
 Whetting his sword against a polished bone. 
 Dark Bloodshed leaped, and straightway he was 
 gone. 
 
 Then greedy Rapine stole upon the scene, 
 And looked around, above bones, and between ; 
 Dark cunning flashed from his far sunken eye. 
 Where cruelty in dogged fear doth lie ; 
 Long arms, and mighty, move the soul to fright. 
 Like the grim rocks which fret the sea by night ; 
 Capacious yawning, hideous jaws 
 Tell of his nature by defined laws ; 
 
A PICTURE OF WAR, 137 
 
 Limbs made for fleetness, strength, and stubborness 
 An anxious sense, all quivering, confess. 
 
 '' Come liitlier, worthy slave ! thy sire. Theft, 
 Said if I watched thee not, naught would be left ; 
 And lest there's nothing else of thee remains. 
 Come in my own hands, place thy captive chains." 
 Thus War said. Rapine wished himself away, 
 Took up his chains, and hastened to obey. 
 
 " Thou know'st thy mission, double-limbed knave ! 
 Forth to thy work, nor spare the church, nor grave ; 
 Creep with thy minions to the city's wealth. 
 Possess it or by knife, or fraud, or stealth ; 
 Pause at the rustic's door, for alms appeal. 
 Watch when he turns, then boldly in and steal ; 
 The maiden standing by the bowered gate 
 Steal thou away and boldly violate ; 
 The wife, who hides her husband's little hoard. 
 Knock on the head and seize on all that's stored ; 
 Trip up the workmen as they homeward go. 
 Filch the week's wages, war costs much you know ; 
 Throughout the land each town or rustic village, 
 Has too much wealth, 'twill lesser grow by pillage ; 
 Go forth ! and spare nor age, nor sex, nor kind. 
 Something from all, to bring away , thou'lt find ; 
 The mershant's marble palace, yielding farms. 
 The student's chamber, and the young girl's charms. 
 The beds of gold, the red and glowing wine, 
 
188 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 Go bring them liere, for I would have all mine." 
 Gathering his imps that soon around him flew 
 Rapine made his obeisance and withdrew. 
 
 With gaunt, yet fiery aspect then appeared, 
 
 Foul Devastation, guilt and blood besmeared ; 
 
 Brimful of some fell purposed horrid woe. 
 
 Death in his look, which kills without a blow ; 
 
 Huge limbs in some saturnal region born. 
 
 Bore up a frame which dooms mankind to mourn ; 
 
 Stiff bristling from his thick uncovered neck, 
 
 Grew hairy swords, that drive the world awreck ; 
 
 Upon his head the myriad tortures grew, 
 
 In heavino- flames now burnino- darkly blue : 
 
 Disaster couched in his eager eyes, 
 
 And from his mouth the leaping torments rise ; 
 
 A clot-stained sword he clutches in one hand. 
 
 The other swings aloft a burning brand ; 
 
 Full twenty daggers grace his body belt. 
 
 Whose hackings show the blows he must have 
 
 dealt. 
 Raging, he bellows and but ill at ease, 
 Before his chieftain, drops upon his knees. 
 
 War, smiling grimly, into greetings broke, 
 And to the kneeling slayer thus he spoke ; — 
 
 " Hail, chietest fiend I all things above, below, 
 The fruits of thy good working, plainly show ; 
 Thou'rt felt in dread consumption's ghastly sway ; 
 
A PICTURE OF WAR. 139 
 
 In weeks on seas ; in mental strength decay ; 
 In the proud tree, low bending to the blast, 
 That with a crash falls to the ground at last ; 
 In castles, which the feudal flag unfurled 
 Now ruined, that had once defied the world ; 
 In the recoiling stroke of lightning flash, 
 Which over mountains, into forests crash ; 
 In storms, that rend the quiet farmer's hearth, 
 Uproot the trees, and barren make the earth ; 
 In flouting treason's pale ambiguous eye ; 
 In by-gone glory, and in patriot sigh. 
 Up and away, my friend and true, 
 Do all that Bloodshed, Hate and Rapine fear to 
 do." 
 
 War, wishing to assist his friends afar. 
 
 Seized a huge sword, and bids his hosts " prepare." 
 
 '' Charo-e on the world with double-hellish will, 
 
 And make it red with blood from those ye kill." 
 
 War said, and soon in battle line arrayed, 
 
 He bid his followers kiss his battle blade ; 
 
 Then Avith dread myriad howls they turned to go, 
 
 And drenched the world with one terrific blow. 
 
140 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 LINES ON THE PROSPECT OF A WAR WITH 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 England, England, stay thy hand ! 
 Never in a fatal deed, let its power be put forth 
 To subdue the gallant spirts that attend upon the 
 North, 
 
 Sworn, a sacrificing band. 
 
 England, stay thy fancied might ! 
 'Twill but dye old plains anew, with thy heroes' 
 
 goodly blood, 
 'Twill but run the streams again with a red and 
 clotted flood, 
 Dyeing, running, day and night. 
 
 Eagles, ever swoop above 
 The creatures of the ground, be they lions, bears 
 
 or snakes, 
 Denizens of forest acres, hissing monarch of the 
 brakes, 
 Thouo;h on burnino; sands thev rove. 
 
 Lions can but loudly roar ; 
 But the war-cries of the Eagles, when they grapple 
 with their prey, 
 
WAR WITH ENGLAND. 141 
 
 , Seem unearthly shrieks, that startle on the timid 
 ear of day, — 
 Frighting even while they soar. 
 
 Listen to the hoarse-like words, 
 That from the hills of old Vermont, in steady 
 
 streams doth come, 
 Like the deep and willing thunder of many a thou- 
 sand drum. 
 Or the clank of million swords. 
 
 Shouts start up in the East, 
 From Maine to Pennsylvania, they know no pause 
 
 or rest. 
 Subsiding never, till they find the gorges of the 
 West, 
 And in golden revels feast ! 
 
 Come they in the winds at night, 
 From the forest all alive, with the ready forms of 
 
 men. 
 Who but hear them uttered once echoed from the 
 thronged glen. 
 When each shouts with mad dello-ht ! 
 
 From many a future rout. 
 Where the war shrieks drown the voices of the 
 brave men in command ; 
 
142 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 In the deatli tones of the wounded, which resound 
 throughout the land, 
 I can hear the fearful shout ! 
 
 From the top of lofty mast. 
 It is branded on the ears of the terror stricken 
 
 night, 
 Till the steal-enbearded Lion, shrinks in terrible af- 
 fright. 
 From the mighty blast ! 
 
 On many a bright sea wave 
 In the thunderbolts of iron, from the glistening can- 
 non se::t. 
 Which burst into the bulwarks, with such a mur- 
 derous rent. 
 That each wave, becomes a grave ! 
 
 From many a brazen mouth, 
 It will speak in greedy tones, of our unappeased 
 
 might, 
 Till the clouds of dingy smoke, make the day re- 
 semble night, 
 Starting from the North and South ! 
 
 From the white of gleaming camp. 
 Whether on the inland plain, on the forest crested 
 shore. 
 
WAR WITH ENGLAND. 143 
 
 Or upon the mountain slopings, near the ocean's 
 steady roar, 
 It is echoed in the tramp ! 
 
 Comes it in the clashing steel, 
 That the stern, and rock-browed soldiers, in all 
 
 their strength hold forth. 
 As on they come quick thronging, with the spirit of 
 the North, 
 To make their foeman reel 1 
 
 It is sung out in our homes. 
 And the children take it up, lisp it out, from their 
 
 tongues, 
 While the sturdy parent heaves it, from his deep 
 and hearty lungs, 
 " Death to England if she comes ! " 
 
 Death to England if she comes ! 
 Over every inch of land, every river, rock, or glen, 
 Are those thriUing words now heard, again, and 
 o'er again, 
 
 Death to England if she comes ! 
 
 Death to England if she comes ! 
 Battle banners are preparing, trumpet notes will 
 
 soon resound. 
 And where'er a flag is planted, the hosts will 
 gather round, 
 Shoutino; " woe to Eno-land if she comes ! " 
 
144 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 Northmen ! leave your clicrislied homes ! 
 Nortlimen ! gather in your strength, and grasp your 
 
 rifles tight, 
 Let the cry that leads ye on, in the tumult of the 
 fight 
 Be " death to England if she comes." 
 
 Remember Lundy's Lane ! 
 Though no Scott is with you now to lead you sol- 
 diers forth. 
 Ye have a young McClellan, who will battle for the 
 North, 
 Oh ! each word of his sustain ! 
 
 Death to England if she comes ! 
 With her ships of War to batter, and her cannon 
 
 to assail, 
 And with all her heated wrath, deluges of leaden 
 hail. 
 She plunges on our homes ! 
 
 The sullen roar is heard, 
 Ere the missile, reaches aught 'gainst which it may 
 
 be aimed, 
 So, this shout, a warning voice, now rightfully is 
 named. 
 Of a sleeping form disturbed ! 
 
 The Lidian, at the mound 
 Of a slaughtered comrade, vows a retaliative strife, 
 
WAR WITH ENGLAND. 146 
 
 And leaping through the woods, he bears the mur- 
 derous knife, 
 And whets it on the ground ! 
 
 So, England ! be not dumb 
 To the voices which I hear, no matter where I turn, 
 Which say " beware thee England" in living words 
 that burn. 
 
 So death to ye if ye come ! 
 
 I've been ready with my voice 
 While the civil war was waged, but some power 
 
 courage gave. 
 Come Thou ! and my form I lose me, in the battles 
 of the brave, — 
 I shall have no other choice. 
 
 Northmen ! gather from your homes. 
 Raise those sturdy arms aloft, prepare them for a 
 
 blow. 
 Verify the shout that's uttered, and the dreadful 
 meaning show. 
 Death to England if she comes ! " 
 
146 BALLADS OF THE WAR. 
 
 THE FARMER SOLDIER TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 I am going, Mary, very soon, 
 
 To leave this lovely place ; 
 Perhaps I never shall return — 
 
 Nay ! do not hide your face ; 
 But lift your holy eyes to mine, 
 
 From whence such joys have come, 
 And let me take a deep, long look 
 
 At my own heart's best home. 
 Oh, you have been, my Mary dear, 
 
 A gentle wife to me. 
 And many are the hours spent 
 
 In loving harmony ; 
 But, alas ! my lovely Mary, 
 
 This noble land and free, 
 Is warred against by those who seek 
 
 To chain it's liberty. 
 
 Though storms, a dullness, — Mary^ dear, — 
 
 Will oftentimes impart ; 
 Yet, for the sake of him who loves, 
 
 Oh, keep a cheery heart ; 
 Nor sit and brood of dangers 
 
 That he cannot control, 
 
THE FARMER SJLDIER TO HIS WIFE. 147 
 
 But, for the sake of little Bess, 
 
 Pray bear a hopeful soul. 
 Tills rosy bower, Mary dear, 
 
 Our love has often seen ; 
 Oh, keep it's roses blossoming. 
 
 It's leaves all fresh and green ; 
 So that when I come home again. 
 
 And glance the country o'er, 
 I'll recognize the blooming scene, 
 
 The bower at my door. 
 
 Our little one ! Oh, gently, wife ! 
 
 Take care of little Bess, 
 And claim each glancing of her eye, 
 
 The trembling of each tress ; 
 And treasure them within your heart, 
 
 Each word and action free. 
 So that when I am come again. 
 
 You'll give them all to me. 
 Then joyful be your heart, dear wife, 
 
 With thought of future bliss. 
 And holy keep this form I press. 
 
 These lips which now I kiss. 
 Good bye ! dear wife ; God grant thee strength 
 
 To crush all tender fears. 
 And give long days of happiness 
 
 For these, our parting tears. 
 
I 
 

 

 "" <* .. °<- *••■"'• ♦^ \ •"' y .. °-*' 
 
 ''"^P^y«'v*^"^^/-J