Ili^ 'T--^:^''^- CONFEDERATE MEMORIAL VERSES BEVERLEY D.TUCKER PS 3539 .U25 C6 1904 Copy 1 CoiNTFEDERATE MEMORIAL VeRSES w|w BEVERLEY DAJSTDRIDGE TUCKER Chaplain Pickett -Btichanan Camp C. "V. 4^ Ptjblishbd by The r»icKETT - Buchanan Ohapter United Daughters of the Confederacy Norfolk, Virginia. 7'0^^^'^t .\^^^,.^ Girt Amliop (Person) ^; '04 Dedication A.. M. W. T. I would have my children proud not because their father, as a boy, wore tht grey and did his lowly part, But I would have them proud of the fact that their mother, whilst yet a little maiden, daughter of a knightly soldier who rode by the side of Robert Lee and gave to the South as a free libation the blood he shared with "the Father of his Country," cheered the troopers who followed the plume of Ashby, and waved her little hand to greet the cannoneers of Pelham, and stood at the gate of her home and gave food and drink to the foot cavalry of Stonewall Jackson, as the tide of battle ebbed and flowed through the beautiful Valley of the Shenandoah. ROBERT E. LEE. Salutamus, O Leader, long lost And passed from our vision and ken, Tho' thine arms on thy bosom be crossed. We call us thy men. And we list for the word of command That leaped from the lips that are mute. Tho' it come not, yet loyal, we stand And give thee salute! Thou art passed. Commander, where ne'er Is heed of the praise and the blame. Yet resistless outrings the loud cheer At sound of thy name. Ah ! the face and the form we knew well Are lost in the chasm of years, But our love has a power to dispel The mist of our tears. And thy glory shall lighten through time The vistas of duty — and then We shall know that our hero sublime Still leadeth his men ! LET US BUILD THE MONUMENT. Norfolk Memorial Day, 1892. I. HAMPTON ROADS. T'was the calm of the day And the enemy lay Unheeding, at anchor in Hampton Bay ; When a flag- was unfurled And a cannon shot hurled Which echoed until it startled the world ! Ah ! the}' recked not the grave Nor the threat'ning wave Whose hearts were dauntless and valiant and brave, As was Nelson's of old ! But, intrepid and bold, They fought as men fight who fight not for gold ! And the foe bowed before The proud banner they bore As they sailed to many an alien shore — But the sea sings to rest Now the bravest and best, As mothers the babes asleep on their breast. Then build to the name and the fame of these A column lofty and grand! They gave to the breeze in the farthest seas The new-born flag of their land — For none were truer nor nobler than they Whose hearts beat high neath their jackets of grey ! o'V^ II. GETTYSBURG. A hill's embattled crest Which Titans could not wrest, And yet they charge with strange heroic zest — And all around them fall The showers of shell and ball, Yet still the Southern cross waves thro' it all ! Ah me ! Ah me ! the slain ! Borne down — as beats the rain The roses in the mire and in the stain ! Yet Pickett and his men Charge on and charge as when The wave breaks on the rock, yet breaks again. It was in vain ? Ah well ! The world will stop to tell, This is the spot where knightly Armistead fell, And this the sacred field Where heroes would not yield But fell each one upon his stainless shield ! Then rear to them here whose glory is dear A shaft to leil ox their deed Ere fame disappear with the fleeting year Or memory's wave recede ! Ah carve it with care in midst of the fray They quailed not nor cringed these heroes in grey III. C/ \ APPOMATTOX. On Appomattox field A worn-out remnant yield, A nation's fate is there forever sealed, A sacred flag is furled And a last shot is hurled Which echoes 'till it saddens all the world. Did Sparta blush for shame At Thermopylae's name Or bury with her dead their meed of fame! Did England ere forget How the Norman foe was met Tho' Harold's sun in cloud and shadow set! The might, at last, prevailed, The Southern legions failed, Yet the glory which was theirs has not paled ; The years may swiftly flee, The proudest boast shall be "We failed, but failed with Jackson and with Lee," Then raise to their praise, whilst memory stays, A shaft which ever shall stand To tell of the days when men stopped to gaze At those who fought for the land. For none were truer nor nobler than they Who sleep, as they fell, in their jackets of grey! IN MEMORY OF THE MEN WHOSE CAUSE IS DEAD BUT WHOSE DEEDS LIVE ON! Vincti Sed Victorea. From hearts of men, from off the country's face, Whose beauty once the stains of blood did mar. Long- years of peace have labored to efface The cruel tracks and vestiges of war. Each spring has brought it's tender wealth of green To hide the gory battlements of earth, 'Till now the barren mounds — that once had been The place of death — to flowers and grass give birth. The dusty plains once trampled by the feet Of angry hosts, whose battle shout was heard Above the cannon's din, are fields of wheat. Or meadows where we list the song of bird. On ships that sail the seas, in churches' aisles, In busy marts, in country and in town. They meet and greet, with kindly words and smiles, Who once in battle faced, with warlike frown. To God be praise ! for Passion yields her sway, And cloud no longer veils the sky above, As storm to calm, and night to day gives way. So war gives place to peace, and hate to love ! Gone is the bitterness that once we knew, Tho' still the woe is traced in many eyes — Gone are the dreams of yore, and ended, too, The old heroic life of sacrifice ! Gone, like a meteor thro' the cloudless skies, The hopes with which we sought the stubborn fray ; Gone, like the music when the singer dies, The fancies which beguiled us for a day ! Gone, like a harvest swept by cruel hail — The hard won fruits of each victorious fight — Aye! country, flag and cause; gone, like a sail That dots the seas, and passes out of sight! Is this, then, all that's left, these many graves Which far and wide, are found in mount and plain. In valleys fair, and where the ocean waves Sing requiem, do these alone remain? Nay, surely, nay, but like as Samson drew The honey from the lion he had slain, So, from our lion, war, we, comrades, too. May draw the strong and sweet — ah ! not in vain ! 'Twas not in vain that these undying men With Lee and Jackson charged thro' storms of lead ; A page they wrote, with sword more strong than pen, Which long shall teach in duty's path to tread ! 'Twas not in vain that these, in camp and field, And women brave as they, 'mid dark'ning skies. Endured and suffered, would not cringe, nor yield. But gave their all, and taught of sacrifice! More fair these fruits we gather from defeat Than some which grow on Vict'rys highest tree, That duty's self, that sacrifice is sweet — Ah ! this to learn, is more than victory ! This much is left of all our fateful strife These names that shine in Honor's glorious sky, These dead to teach us how to live our life. Or show us how, if duty call, to die ! And now, because they dying left this gift Of names untarnished and of mem'ries bright. Whose glory made in leaden skies a rift, And bathes fore'er our Southern land in light. Because they gave us all they could, we bring This tribute wrought of flow'rs, of verse, of tears, And vow to keep from dark Oblivion's wing Their names and deeds, thro' all the changing years. THE DAYS WHEN WE FOLLOWED ROBERT LEE. Pickett-Euclianan Camp, Januarv lUtli. By the old familiar light Of the camp-fire burning bright Let us gather here to-night — Tell the tale, sing the well-remembered glee. Stir the embers fading fast, See the visions of the past Hear again the bugle blast As in days when we followed Robert Lee. There is snow upon our hair. And the furrowed marks of care How they tell the wear and tear Of the years that have sped — but let it be ! We are boys, to-day, once more, And we're comrades, as of yore, When this flag we proudly bore In the davs when we followed Robert Lee! "Rag of treason," men may call This old banner — but to all Who once loved it 'tis the pall Of our dear Southern cause — and shall be, As a sacred lock we save, As a flower from Mother's grave — Dear, as when we saw it wave. In the days when we followed Robert Lee! For still our bosoms swell At the old Confederate yell, And we love to sit and tell Of the years when we struggled to be free- Call us "rebels" — but the name It will bring no blush of shame 'Twas the synomyn of fame In the days when we followed Robert Lee! There was laughter well as tears And the old Confederate hears, Across the waste of years, It's echo like the echo of the sea, And the old rheumatic pain Will be vexing him in vain, For it makes him young again As in days when we followed Robert Lee! For as oft we sit and gaze In the warm and cheerful blaze — Ah ! the tricks our fancy plays, The visions which our memories make us see! Once again the armies tramp Thro' the snow and rain and damp, Then the pleasures of the camp As in days when we followed Robert Lee ! Ah ! the stained old haversack With the bacon and hardtack And that whiflF of apple jack. And the coffee made of rye — they may be Not a dainty bill of fare — But it must have been the air, For they tasted mighty fair In the days when we followed Robert Lee. As the mem'ry dreams and whirls How it brings up all the girls With the dancing eye and curls And the laughter like the ripple of the sea ! O, the tender, sweet, farewell And the kiss remembered well — But 't would never do to tell How we loved when we followed Robert Lee. And the trumpet sounds once more As we fight our battles o'er — Midst the rattle and the roar How we charged in our struggles to be free ! Ah ! it was a glorious sight. For we struck with all our might. When we battled for the right In the days when we followed Robert Lee. Like the wind among the pines, As he rides on down the lines, Whilst every bayonet shines. Sounds the cheer when his noble form we see, Oh ! the world shall never know All our trust in weal and woe, In that grand old long- ago All our love, as we followed Robert Lee. But the vision will not stay, And the flag is furled away, For we fought and lost the day — Ah ! the forms which we never more shall see! But they counted not the cost 'Twas a willing holocaust, And the glory was not lost In the davs when we followed Robert Lee ! COMPENSATION. In Commemoration of the Confederate Dead of th<^ University of Virginia. Was it waste when the sons, who were reared at thy side^ At the beat of the drum, did not falter nor pause, And by duty were drawn, as the waves by the tide Obedient to laws? Was it waste when they struggled, and suflfered and died For flag and for cause? Was it waste when they went from this Temple of Lore, In the prime of their youth, with its secrets unlearned. Like the guests of a banquet who vanish before The torches are burned? Was it waste that they left, ere the lesson was o'er, The pages unturned? Was it waste that they spent in the battle and strife All the gifts that were theirs and the treasures of youth? Was it waste that they bartered the joyance of life For travail and ruth? That they gave of their best, when the struggle was rife For honour and truth ? Was it waste when the ointment was poured on the feet Of the Christ, when the spices in linen were bound? Was it waste when He died as the grain of the wheat That's cast in the ground? Did the world think it waste, when, the harvest complete. Its glory was found? Was it waste when the Spartan returned on his shield? Was it waste when Leonidas guarded the way? Or when Harold lay dead with his knights on the field, At close of the day? Was it waste when a Winkelried, rather than yield. Was slain in the fray? Ah ! the world has its praise for the men who prevail, For the victors who triumph by wrong and by might, But the heart has its love for the vanquished who fail Yet battle for right ! And their names they will shine, when the conquerors' pale. Like stars in the night! For the laurels of triumph are lost like the wave, Like the foam of the billows that break on the shore, But the laurels of love men cherish and save Whilst truth shall endure, They shall garland the home, though the fallen and brave Have passed thro' the door! Was it waste? Nay thy sons but translated in deed All the truths of the books of the wisest and best. They were seekers of Honour, and chose but to heed Her royal behest, And the names of the dead are the pages we read To learn of the quest ! AGAIN ! Delivered in Norfolk on Memorial Day. Thursday, May 15th, 1902. Spring yet again her treasure trove discloses Her wealth of blossom, bud and bloom, Leaves on the trees and heavy clustered roses — And we forget the winter's gloom ! Life ev'rywhere, as sleeping Earth arouses To tender touch of sun and rain, Lillies and violets in leafy houses The redolence distill again. No secret lost, no hue, no scent forgotten, The Spring asserts her ancient powers. Forests that seemed decayed, and dead, and rotten. Are changed once more to shady bowers. Fields, by the winter clad in snow, she dresses In living green or golden grain, Nature, so dormant, through her skill possesses Her ev'ry charm and grace again. Comes with the Spring the thought no years can banish Of those far days of lordly strife, Visions appear which seem to fade and vanish Amid the stir and whirl of life, Mem'ry resumes her sway and Love her sceptre. But gone the bitterness and pain, — Prizing the glory which defeat has left her The Southland lives her past again. Backward, resistless, come the mem'ries trooping, Of Jackson, Stuart, Hampton, Lee, Mem'ries of men who took this banner drooping And gave it forth to breezes free, Mem'ries of women, gentle, brave and tender Fair ministers to want and pain — Long be the day before our hearts surrender The right to dream this dream again ! Spring now h^r roses finds on branches perished With winter's stern relentless chill, We, too, in our heroic past and cherished. Shall find the flowers of glory still. Dead tho' they sleep, yet must our hearts be loyal. Whilst honour, love and truth remain, Faithful to those, whose deeds so fair and royal Remembrance wakes to life again ! Cold is the heart that beats not truer, faster Beside this consecrated dust. Valour is valour though it meet disaster. And lost! no cause will seem less just. Green be their graves and honoured still their story. And free their names from ev'ry stain, These men who died, but whose unfading glory Will light the people's path again. Ring out and softly ring a requiem splendid For all who sleep and wore the grey. Bring here the wreaths with love and honour blended, For none are worthier love than they — Mem'ry returns and tears the veil asunder, The living comrade meets the slain ! Almost it seems we hear the cannon thunder And are Confederates again ! DEO VINDICE. Dedication of the Monument of the Otey Battery. Ring out, ye Bugles, loud and clear! We muster on this knoll. And let each comrade answer "Here!" As Honour calls the roll. Between us and the days of strife Stretch many years afar — The battles we have fought in life Out-number those of war! But still the mem'ry of those days Defies the fretting years, And still the fancy backward strays, With mingled smiles and tears. Thro' varied scenes her pathway runs, But brings us all at last, To where we see our flashing guns, And hear the bugle's blast ! And as we gaze with eager eyes Thro' mists of long ago. Familiar forms before us rise, And faces which we know. And, when from out the distance dim, The breeze is blowing clear, We — like a strain of childhood's hymn- Remembered voices hear. O, Comrades ! hark the bugle's sound — Tho' fast the years have sped ; To-day, on Mem'rys neutral ground, The living meet the dead. Let Glory sound the reveille. And then the dead will wake ; So shall our ranks unbroken be, As here our camp we make. O ! Comrades from the farther shore, Was yours the sadder fate. Who fell before the fight was o'er, Whilst Vict'ry held the gate? Who fell whilst yet the voice of Fame Was ringing in your ears ; Who never saw your country's shame, Nor mourned her cause with tears. For you the vision never paled, The flag was never furled ; Ye fell,' whilst yet its stars prevailed To keep at bay the world. To-day, that banner only waves Where falls the silent dew, To bless the flow'rs and grass of graves Which hide the brave and true. We lived to see how vain the trust. How vain the strife and toil — For that alone which holds your dust Remains Confederate soil. We saw our armies forced to yield, Our visions fade away — But ye who fell on Honour's field Still wear Confederate grey. This stone shall now our Mizpah be. This spot our rallying place. Where they who fought for liberty Shall meet them face to face. This shaft on which we carve no name Shall guide Virginia's youth — A sign-post on the road to Fame. To Honour and to Truth. A silent sentry, it shall stand To guard, thro' coming time, Their graves who died for native land And duty most sublime. O ! Comrades of the days of yore, If courage still inspire Like that which would not quail before The Crater's murd'rous fire. These mem'ries of the time afar Shall teach us how to wield Our weapons in the sterner war, On life's great battle-field. The shaft, with which the hands of love Now mark this sacred sod, Shall point to clearing skies above And bid us hope in God. Shall bid us seek life's nobler gain. Until our spirits feel The motto was not writ in vain On our Confederate Seal. DEDICATION OF THE MONUMENT TO THE CON- FEDERATE DEAD AT PORTSMOUTH, VA. Where rolls the Nile its turbid stream And makes the valley laugh with corn, Where kingdoms pass, as though in dream, Which waxed and waned ere Greece was born There stand, to-day, unworn by years, Which learn the languor of the clime, The stones inwrought with blood and tears That tyrants raised to challenge time! And man still sees with blush of shame On obelisk and pyramid Inscribed a crowned monster's name And all th' unmanly deeds he did! 19 The tale of woe, of crime, of lust Which Nemesis will not erase. We read it still, tho' there be dust On ev'ry sculptured Pharoah's face! This stone which loving hands upraise Its story tells of blood and tears, But none shall blush who come to gaze — Tho' here it stand a thousand years! 'Twas freeman's blood — not that of slaves — In freedom's cause most freely shed. And tears which fell on many graves From hearts that would not grudge the dead. And Glory here shall speak the name Of men unnamed in History's page. And claim for them a share of fame In ev'ry great heroic age ! They came from valley, mount and glen From where the ocean billows foam, A nation's strong, intrepid men, From cottage, hut and stately home. One serried band — Manassas' plain With vict'ry wreathes the flag they bear, They charge and charge, and charge again And only know that Stonewall's there! O bold and dauntless Southern host Who dared to march at Jackson's side, Is this your country's proudest boast — Or that ye marched when Jackson died! O men whose sabres kept the land, Who answered Ashby's ringing cheer. Who rode with knighth^ Stuart's band And onlv asked if foes were near! O cannoneers, who steadfast stood By Pelham with the laughing eye, Who though your guns were drenched with blood, Ne'er failed to give the foe reply! O, seamen staunch, and brave, and true, Who manned our Southern ships and sailed Beneath the starry cross of blue, And fought as long as hope availed ! O men who followed stately Lee, Nor faltered when disaster came. The deeds ye wrought shall surely be Inscribed on lofty gates of Fame ! As long as Glory lifts her head, And truth within her bosom springs, She'll deem our dear Confederate dead More worth than all of Egypt's kings! O, city by the sounding sea. Be thine the ever sacred trust, To guard their name from slander free, And teach the world their cause was just I UNVEILING OF THE MONUMENT TO THE CON- FEDERATE DEAD OF GLOUCESTER. September 18, 1889. A stone from the spot where a hero fell,* In the midst of the April bloom, Come take it, O Sculptor, and make it tell Of the men who encountered doom, Unheeding the shriek of the shot and shell, Unheeding the tomb ! Aye, give it a voice — like herald of yore — (An echo that lingers and stays!) To speak of the Jove and the faith they bore. As they fought in the grand old days. And charged 'mid the clamour, and smoke and roar. Unmindful of praise ! Then make it as Memnon — let music flow In the glow of the Southern sun. In strains which are tender, and soft and low, As they tell how the deeds were done By the men of our blood, 'till the world shall know The glory they won! Emblazon the names of the true and tried. Engrave them with care in stone! Our children must feel that the dead have died For a cause that we deemed our own. And blush not for men we have marched beside In days that are flown ! On fields that are sacred to fame they fell, Let them sleep in a soldier's grave. By mountain and valley and lonely dell, In the plain, by the ocean wave — The stone that we garland with flowers shall tell Our love for the brave ! Then shield it forever from time's decay, Let it shine as a beacon light And point to the fame of the men in grey Who surrendered their lives for Right. The bravest shall pause, as they pass this Avay, And thrill at the sight ! Virginia may call as she called of old. But she never shall call in vain, Whilst Gloucester has sons who are true and bold, Who have learned from her glorious slain, That duty is dearer by far than gold, And honor than gain ! Gen-1. A. P. Hill. (J ^\ FATHER RYAN. There was never a voice to utter The grief and the pain of the land. Till his music awoke responsive To the tender touch of his hand. She bowed in her desolate silence, And mourned by the graves of her dead ; And she longed for the consolation That comes when the tears are shed. Till his strains, as they fell, awakened In the soul that bent o'er the sod. New faith in the gracious designings ; In the hidden purpose of God. He'd learned, as he knelt at his altars, To trust in Omnipotent Love ; And his song had an inspiration Which echoed to music above. He took all our idle complainings, And lo ! in their stead, in one mouth, His song as a low supplication, Welled up from the heart of the South. His strains, full of pathos and glory, And heard of a listening world. Entwined, as a wreath of immortelles, The flag that we wearily furled. There is never a grave so humble, In all of the desolate land. But his verse has inscribed upon it An epitaph stately and grand. Once more — by the beds of the dying, In the homes of the pestilent West — His song, like a low miserere. Goes up from his pitying breast ! A wail for the woe of his people, A plea that God's mercy would spare. And we take up its lowly burden. And change all our murmurs to prayer. Ah ! the South is stricken and anguished But never a heart can forget The solace his music has brought us — And its echo lingereth yet! zA j.\ JAMES BARRON HOPE. O Troubadour, whose hand with equal skill Could wield a warrior's sword amidst the fray. Or sweep the slumb'ring^ chords of music till All hearts were willing captives to its sway. O knig-htly soul, gentle because so strong O kindly heart, tender because so brave. How shall we miss the solace of thy song. Where find the strength which thy mere presence gave? Honour and Love, these words were written large On thy life's page so spotless white and pure — Thy name like some well freighted treasure barge In memory's haven anchors now secure. Like those of whom the olden Scriptures tell, Who faltered not but went on dang'rous quest For one cool draught of water from the well With which to cheer their exiled monarch's breast, So thou to add one single laurel more To our great chieftain's fame — heedless of pain. Didst gather up thy failing strength and pour Forth all thy soul in one last glorious strain. And when the many pilgrims come to gaze Upon the sculptured form of mighty Lee, They'll not forget the bard who sang his praise With dying breath but deathless melody. For on the statue which a country rears, Tho' graven by no hand, we'll surely see. E'en tho' it be thro' blinding mists of tears. Thv name forever linked with that of Lee! JOHN R. THOMPSON. [On the present.ation of a portrait to the University of Virginia.] Lo! through the purple mists that veil the further shore, As through a cloud the light of some familiar star, There comes the dear remembered face, So full of mingled strength and grace — The troubadour who sang Virginia's songs of yore, And gave one clarion note above the din of war Too frail of frame to wield the warrior's flashing blade, He could not share the tented field or soldier's dream, But strong of soul, heroic heart, He came, to tal