 | War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. |  |
JAMES R. RANDALL.
Born in Baltimore, Md., January 1, 1839. Was educated at
Georgetown, D. C., College. Resided for some time in Louisiana,
and was Professor of English Literature in Poydras College,
where, in 1861, he wrote the famous and immortal lyric:
"Maryland, My Maryland." At the close of the war he moved
to Augusta, Ga., where he was engaged as the editor of the
Constitutionalist and later of the Chronicle. He has also held
editorial positions in Washington and in Baltimore. At this
writing he is again living in Augusta. His poems have not yet
been published in book form. It is hoped that a collection of
the poems of this true and brilliant poet will soon be made.
MY MARYLAND.
The despot's heel is on thy shore,
Maryland!
His torch is at thy temple-door,
Maryland!
Avenge the patriotic gore
That flecked the streets of Baltimore,
And be the battle-queen of yore,
Maryland! my Maryland!
Maryland!
His torch is at thy temple-door,
Maryland!
Avenge the patriotic gore
That flecked the streets of Baltimore,
And be the battle-queen of yore,
Maryland! my Maryland!
Hark to an exiled son's appeal,
Maryland!
My Mother State, to thee I kneel,
Maryland!
Maryland!
My Mother State, to thee I kneel,
Maryland!
100
For life and death, for wo and weal,
Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,
Maryland! my Maryland I
Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,
Maryland! my Maryland I
Thou wilt not cower in the dust,
Maryland!
Thy beaming sword shall never rust,
Maryland!
Remember Carroll's sacred trust,
Remember Howard's warlike thrust,
And all thy slumberers with the just,
Maryland! my Maryland!
Maryland!
Thy beaming sword shall never rust,
Maryland!
Remember Carroll's sacred trust,
Remember Howard's warlike thrust,
And all thy slumberers with the just,
Maryland! my Maryland!
Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day,
Maryland!
Come! with thy panoplied array,
Maryland!
With RinggokTs spirit for the fray,
With Watson's blood at Monterey,
With fearless Lowe and dashing May,
Maryland! my Maryland!
Maryland!
Come! with thy panoplied array,
Maryland!
With RinggokTs spirit for the fray,
With Watson's blood at Monterey,
With fearless Lowe and dashing May,
Maryland! my Maryland!
101
Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,
Maryland!
Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,
Maryland!
Come! to thine own heroic throng,
That stalks with Liberty along,
And ring thy dauntless Slogan-song,
Maryland! my Maryland!
Maryland!
Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,
Maryland!
Come! to thine own heroic throng,
That stalks with Liberty along,
And ring thy dauntless Slogan-song,
Maryland! my Maryland!
Dear Mother! burst the tyrant's chain,
Maryland!
Virginia should not call in vain,
Maryland!
She meets her sisters on the plain,
Maryland!
"Sic semper" 'tis the proud refrain,
That baffles minions back amain,
Arise in majesty again,
Maryland! my Maryland!
Maryland!
Virginia should not call in vain,
Maryland!
She meets her sisters on the plain,
Maryland!
"Sic semper" 'tis the proud refrain,
That baffles minions back amain,
Arise in majesty again,
Maryland! my Maryland!
I see the blush upon thy cheek,
Maryland!
For thou wast ever bravely meek,
Maryland!
Maryland!
For thou wast ever bravely meek,
Maryland!
102
But lo! there surges forth a shriek
From hill to hill, from creek to creek—
Potomac calls to Chesapeake,
Maryland! my Maryland
From hill to hill, from creek to creek—
Potomac calls to Chesapeake,
Maryland! my Maryland
Thou wilt not yield the vandal toll,
Maryland!
Thou wilt not crook to his control,
Maryland!
Better the fire upon thee roll,
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,
Than crucifixion of the soul,
Maryland I my Maryland!
Maryland!
Thou wilt not crook to his control,
Maryland!
Better the fire upon thee roll,
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,
Than crucifixion of the soul,
Maryland I my Maryland!
I hear the distant thunder-hum,
Maryland!
The Old Line bugle, fife and drum,
Maryland!
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb—
Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum!
She breathes-she burns! she'll come! she'll come!
Maryland! my Maryland!
Maryland!
The Old Line bugle, fife and drum,
Maryland!
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb—
Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum!
She breathes-she burns! she'll come! she'll come!
Maryland! my Maryland!
103
JOHN PELHAM.
Just as the spring came laughing through the strife,
With all its gorgeous cheer,
In the bright April of historic life
Fell the great cannoneer.
With all its gorgeous cheer,
In the bright April of historic life
Fell the great cannoneer.
The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath,
His bleeding country weeps—
Hushed in the alabaster arms of Death,
Our young Marcellus sleeps.
His bleeding country weeps—
Hushed in the alabaster arms of Death,
Our young Marcellus sleeps.
Nobler and grander than the child of Rome,
Curbing his chariot steeds;
The knightly scion of a Southern home
Dazzled the land with deeds.
Curbing his chariot steeds;
The knightly scion of a Southern home
Dazzled the land with deeds.
Gentlest and bravest in the battle brunt,
The champion of the truth,
He bore his banner to the very front
Of our immortal youth.
The champion of the truth,
He bore his banner to the very front
Of our immortal youth.
A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow,
The fiery pang of shells—
And there's a wail of immemorial woe
In Alabama dells.
The fiery pang of shells—
And there's a wail of immemorial woe
In Alabama dells.
104
The pennon drops that led the sacred band
Along the crimson field;
The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand,
Over the spotless shield.
Along the crimson field;
The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand,
Over the spotless shield.
We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face,
While 'round the lips and eyes,
Couched in the marble slumber, flashed the grace
Of a divine surprise.
While 'round the lips and eyes,
Couched in the marble slumber, flashed the grace
Of a divine surprise.
Oh, mother of a blessed soul on high!
Thy tears may soon be shed—
Think of thy boy with the princes of the sky,
Among the Southern dead.
Thy tears may soon be shed—
Think of thy boy with the princes of the sky,
Among the Southern dead.
How must he smile on this dull world beneath,
Fevered with swift renown—
He—with the martyr's amarinthine wreath
Twining the victor's crown!
Fevered with swift renown—
He—with the martyr's amarinthine wreath
Twining the victor's crown!
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. | |