Windward I saw the billows swing To reach us ere we should be gone, There was no time to spare: a wave E'en then broke growling at my feet; One last look to the sky I gave, Then sprang my eager foes to meet. Loud rang the fray above our grave— I felt the vessel downward reel As my last thrust met thrusting steel. I heard a roaring in my ears; A green wall pressed against my eyes; Down, down I passed; the vanished years I saw in mimicry arise. Yet even then I felt no fears, And with my last expiring breath VICKSBURG BY PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE For sixty days and upwards, Rained round us in a flaming shower, "If the noble city perish," Our grand young leader said, "Let the only walls the foe shall scale Be ramparts of the dead!" For sixty days and upwards, The eye of heaven waxed dim; As if the fiends in air Strove to engulf the voice of faith There was wailing in the houses, Our very women walked the streets And the little children gamboled, Just for a wondering moment, As the huge bombs whirled and blazed; Then turned with silvery laughter To the sports which children love, Thrice-mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought That the good God watched above. Yet the hailing bolts fell faster, Grew the conflict's wild eclipse, But the unseen hands of angels In the houses ceased the wailing, And through the war-scarred marts (Southern.) THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE ANONYMOUS We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more, From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's shore; We leave our plows and workshops, our wives and children dear, With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear; We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more! If you look across the hill-tops that meet the northern sky, Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry; And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside, And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride, And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more! If you look all up our valleys where the growing harvests shine, You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line; And children from their mother's knees are pulling at the weeds, And learning how to reap and sow against their country's needs; And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more! You have called us, and we're coming, by Richmond's bloody tide To lay us down, for Freedom's sake, our brother's bones beside, Or from foul treason's savage grasp to wrench the murderous blade, And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade. Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone. before: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more! IN DAYS LIKE THESE BY THOMAS H. STACY O God of hosts, whose mighty hand 'Mid clashing arms and bugles' blare, The winds have swept our colors out, The men troop by who now are missed, The sea calls sea with beacon lips, To strike the foe at break of day. |