 | War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. |  |
105
AT FORT PILLOW.
You shudder as you think upon
The carnage of the grim report,
The desolation when we won
The inner trenches of the fort;
The carnage of the grim report,
The desolation when we won
The inner trenches of the fort;
But there are deeds you may not know,
That scourge the pulses into strife;
Dark memories of deathless wo,
Pointing the bayonet and knife.
That scourge the pulses into strife;
Dark memories of deathless wo,
Pointing the bayonet and knife.
The house is ashes where I dwelt,
Beyond the mightly inland sea;
The tombstones shattered where I knelt,
By that old church at Point Coupee.
Beyond the mightly inland sea;
The tombstones shattered where I knelt,
By that old church at Point Coupee.
The Yankee fiends, that came with fire,
Camped on the consecrated sod,
And trampled in the dust and mire
The Holy Eucharist of God!
Camped on the consecrated sod,
And trampled in the dust and mire
The Holy Eucharist of God!
The spot where darling mother sleeps,
Beneath the glimpse of yon sad moon,
Is crushed, with splintered marble heaps,
To stall the horse of some dragoon.
Beneath the glimpse of yon sad moon,
Is crushed, with splintered marble heaps,
To stall the horse of some dragoon.
106
God! when I ponder that black day
It makes my frantic spirit wince;
I marched—with Longstreet—far away,
But have beheld the ravage since.
It makes my frantic spirit wince;
I marched—with Longstreet—far away,
But have beheld the ravage since.
The tears are hot upon my face,
When thinking what black fate befell
The only sister of our race—
A thing too horrible to tell.
When thinking what black fate befell
The only sister of our race—
A thing too horrible to tell.
They say that, ere her senses fled,
She rescue of her brothers cried;
Then feebly bowed her stricken head,
Too pure to live thus—so she died.
She rescue of her brothers cried;
Then feebly bowed her stricken head,
Too pure to live thus—so she died.
Two of the brothers heard no plea;
With their proud hearts forever still—
John shrouded by the Tennessee,
And Arthur there at Malvern Hill.
With their proud hearts forever still—
John shrouded by the Tennessee,
And Arthur there at Malvern Hill.
But I have heard it everywhere,
Vibrating like a passing knell;
'Tis as perpetual as the air,
And solemn as a funeral bell.
Vibrating like a passing knell;
'Tis as perpetual as the air,
And solemn as a funeral bell.
107
By scorched lagoon and murky swamp
My wrath was never in the lurch;
I've killed the picket in his camp,
And many a pilot on his perch.
My wrath was never in the lurch;
I've killed the picket in his camp,
And many a pilot on his perch.
With steady rifle, sharpened brand,
A week ago, upon my steed,
With Forrest and his warrior band,
I made the hell-hounds writhe and bleed.
A week ago, upon my steed,
With Forrest and his warrior band,
I made the hell-hounds writhe and bleed.
You should have seen our leader go
Upon the battle's burning marge,
Swooping, like falcon, on the foe,
Heading the gray line's iron charge!
Upon the battle's burning marge,
Swooping, like falcon, on the foe,
Heading the gray line's iron charge!
All outcasts from our ruined marts,
We heard th' undying serpent hiss,
And in the desert of our hearts
The fatal spell of Nemesis.
We heard th' undying serpent hiss,
And in the desert of our hearts
The fatal spell of Nemesis.
The Southron yell rang loud and high
The moment that we thundered in,
Smiting the demons hip and thigh,
Cleaving them to the very chin.
The moment that we thundered in,
Smiting the demons hip and thigh,
Cleaving them to the very chin.
108
My right arm bared for fiercer play,
The left one held the rein in slack;
In all the fury of the fray
I sought the white man, not the black.
The left one held the rein in slack;
In all the fury of the fray
I sought the white man, not the black.
The dabbled clots of brain and gore
Across the swirling sabres ran;
To me each brutal visage bore,
The front of one accursed man.
Across the swirling sabres ran;
To me each brutal visage bore,
The front of one accursed man.
Throbbing along the frenzied vein,
My blood seemed kindled into song—
The death-dirge of the sacred slain,
The slogan of immortal wrong.
My blood seemed kindled into song—
The death-dirge of the sacred slain,
The slogan of immortal wrong.
It glared athwart the dripping glaves,
It blazed in each avenging eye—
The thought of desecrated graves,
And some lone sister's desperate cry!
It blazed in each avenging eye—
The thought of desecrated graves,
And some lone sister's desperate cry!
| War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. | |