Grant and Lee

by Joseph Seamon Cotter, Sr.

The South's the sin? The North's the glory?

Laugh out of court the hackneyed story.

The sin took root in the nation's heart.

And North and South played a dual part.

 

The North and the South wore a cheek of shame,

Till a life of woe wrought and earth of flame.

And who were the heroes? All who fell,

Whether North or South, in the nation's hell.

 

And who were the heroes? Great souls who fed

The nation's maw with the nation's dead

Till the nation's blood slew the nation's curse,

And made man free as the universe.

 

Neither Grant of the North nor Lee of the South

Shall link his name with the cannon's mouth.

Neither Lee of the South nor Grant of the North

Shall stand accused when the blame goes forth.

 

In the South's warm heart, or on the North's just tongue,

A dual epic of piece is sung

With regret for the bond and hope for the free,

And a God-like love for Grant and Lee.

---

The Old Negro Soldier of the Civil War

by Joseph Seamon Cotter, Sr.

He now is old, but he once was young,

And his life was under a ban;

He mourned his lot, and wondered why,

God did not give him a chance to die,

Or prove himself a man.

His country called the white and black,

And he heard that country’s call.

And left the cabin and left the plow,

And he made that country an honest vow-

To fight, and if need, to fall.

He wed his step to the musket’s crack,

His thought to the cannon’s roar;

And prayed that they be songs of piece

To prophesy his soul’s release

And freedom for ever-more.

From out of the clashing of word and thought,

And the strain of shot and shell,

He lives to see, as God had willed,

His people slowly, but surely build-

A heaven out of hell.

He is older now, he is feebler now,

And his thoughts are nearer God.

So let us lighten his fleeting days

And offer him thanks and meed and praise,

That will blossom above the sod.

---

The Unsung Heros

by Paul Laurence Dunbar

A song for the unsung heros who rose in the country's need,
When the life of the land was threatened by the slaver's cruel greed,
For them men who came from the cornfield, who came from the plough and the flail,
Who rallied round when they heard the sound of the mighty man of the rail.

They laid them down in the valleys, they laid them down in the wood,
And the world looked on at the work they did, and whispered, "It is good."
They fought their way on the hillside, they fought their way in the glen,
And God looked down on their sinews brown, and said, "I have made them men."

They went down to the blue lines gladly, and the blue lines took them in,
And men who saw their muskets' fire thought not of their dusky skin.
The gray lines rose and melted beneath their scathing showers,
And they said, "'Tis true, they have force to do, these old slave boys of ours."

Ah, Wagner saw their glory, and Pillow knew their blood,
That poured on a nation's altar, a sacrificial flood.
Port Hudson heard their war-cry that smote its smoke-filled air,
And the old free fires of their savage fires again were kindled there.

They laid them down where the rivers, the greening valleys gem.
And the song of the thund'rous cannon was their sole requiem,
And the great smoke wreath that mingled its hue with the dusky cloud,
Was the flag that furled o'er a saddened world, and the sheet that made their shroud.

Oh, Mighty God of the Battles Who held them in Thy Hand,
Who gave them strength through the whole day's length, to fight for their native land,
They are lying dead on the hillsides, they are lying dead on the plain,
And we have not fire to smite the lyre and sing them one brief strain.

Give, Thou, some seer the power to sing them in their might,
The men who feared the master's whip, but did not fear the fight;
That he may tell of their virtues as minstrils did of old,
Till the pride of face and the hate of race grow obsolete and cold.

A song for the unsung heros who stood the awful test,
When the humblest host that the land could boast went forth to meet the best;
A song for the unsung heros who fell on the bloody sod,
Who fought their way from night to day and struggled up to God.

The Colored Soldiers

by Paul Laurence Dunbar

The Bivouac of the Dead

by Theodore O’Hara

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tatoo;
No more on Life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents to spread,
And glory guards, with solemn round
The bivouc of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind;
Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dreams alarms;
No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shriveled swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed,
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
And plentious funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms, by battle gashed
Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are past;
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce Northern hurricane
That sweeps the great plateau,
Flushed with triumph, yet to gain,
Come down the serried foe,
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew the watchword of the day
Was "Victory or death!"

Long had the doubtful conflict raged
O'er all that stricken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged
The vengful blood of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the glory tide;
Not long, our stout old Chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.

Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr's grave
The flower of his beloved land,
The nation's flag to save.
By rivers of their father's gore
His first-born laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too.

For many a mother's breath has swept
O'er Angostura's plain --
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its mouldered slain.
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air.
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave;
She claims from war his richest spoil --
The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield;
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes sepulchre.

Rest on embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave;
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
For honor points the hallowed spot
Where valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanquished ago has flown,
The story how ye fell;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor time's remorseless doom,
Can dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.