Civil War Short Stories and Poems

Bob Blaisdell

• Publisher: Dover Publications
• Year: 2013
• eBook ISBN: 9780486281285
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: North American Literary Collections
• Index: Literature

This anthology commemorates the 150th anniversary of the American Civil War with reflections from both sides of the conflict. Compiled by an expert in the literature of the era, the poems and short stories appear in chronological order. They trace the war's progress and portray a gamut of moods, from the early days of eagerness to confront the foe to long years of horror at the ongoing carnage and sad relief at the struggle's end.
Selections include the poetry of Walt Whitman, John Greenleaf Whittier, and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; observations by Herman Melville and Louisa May Alcott; and noteworthy fiction by Ambrose Bierce ("An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge") and Mark Twain ("A True Story, Repeated Word for Word, As I Heard It"). Lesser-known writers, many of them anonymous, offer heartfelt testimonials and eyewitness accounts from battlefields and the homefront.

1862

Battle-Hymn of the Republic

JULIA WARD HOWE

Howe (1819–1910) wrote the most famous marching poem in American history in 1861 and published it in The Atlantic Monthly in February 1862. The “Hallelujah” chorus was subsequently added in April when the verses were accompanied by music.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword:

His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;

I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps.

His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:

“As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;

Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,

Since God is marching on.”

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;

He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat:

Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!

Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,

With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:

As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,

While God is marching on.

Song of the Irish Legion

JAMES DE MILLE

As many as 150,000 Irish natives and descendents fought for the Union in the Civil War. (“Erin go Bragh!” is a vow of “Ireland forever!”)

E Pluribus Unum! Erin go Bragh!

Ye boys of the sod, to Columbia true,

Come up, lads, and fight for the Red, White, and Blue!

Two countries we love, and two mottoes we’ll share,

And we’ll join them in one on the banner we bear:
Erin, mavourneen! Columbia, agra!
E pluribus unum! Erin go bragh!

Upon them, my lads! and the Rebels shall know

How Erin can fight when she faces the foe;

If they can’t give us arms, sure, we needn’t delay;

With a sprig of shillalah we’ll open the way.
Erin, mavourneen! Columbia, agra!
E pluribus unum! Erin go bragh!

“Blood-Tubs” and “Plug-Uglies,” and others galore,

Are sick for a thrashing in sweet Baltimore;

Be Jabers! that same I’d be proud to inform

Of the terrible force of an Irishman’s arm.
Erin, mavourneen! Columbia, agra!
E pluribus unum! Erin go bragh!

Before you the tyrant assembles his band,

And threatens to conquer this glorious land;

But it wasn’t for this that we traversed the sea,

And left the Green Isle for the land of the free.
Erin, mavourneen! Columbia, agra!
E pluribus unum! Erin go bragh!

Go forth to the tyrant, and give him to know

That an Irishman holds him his bitterest foe;

And his sweetest delight is to meet him in fight,

To battle for freedom, with God for the right!
Erin, mavourneen! Columbia, agra!
E pluribus unum! Erin go bragh!

Come List, My Boys, Enlist

ANONYMOUS

This rallying poem, one of many encouraging enlistment, was published in Chester County’s Philadelphia Press.

Hurrah! the boys are moving—the fife and drum speak war;

A Quaker’s son is captain, and numbers up his score.

And harvest past, right well we know, he’ll drill his eighty more.

For it must be done, the people say;

It must be done, and now’s the day;

It must be done, and this the way—

Come list, my boys, enlist.

The fields stand rough in stubble, the wheat is under roof;

What are you made of, country boys? come, give your mother proof:

Your comrades fight, and cowards you if you shall stand aloof.

For it must be done, the people say, etc.

Up change the rake for rife—the companies recruit;

Come, out with arms all brawn, and learn the secret how to shoot;

Your sisters, in the cider-time, will gather in the fruit.

For it must be done, the people say, etc.

Good tidings for the telegraph, swift let the message run:

Old Chester sends her greeting proud along to Washington;

Each farm-house pours its treasures free, and consecrates a son.

For it must be done, the people say, etc.

Hurrah I hurrah! old farmer, shout from your brown-tanned throat;

Pish! for each home-found man, today, who wears moustache or goat;

For every male who well might go, but stays, a petticoat.

For it must be done, the people say, etc.

Hurrah! hurrah! old farmer’s wife, you’ll see the whole thing done;

The maidens will be weaving it—you’ll see the worsted spun;

The coward’s be the petticoat—but it will not be your son.

For it must be done, the people say;

It must be done, and now’s the day;

It must be done, and this the way—

Come list, my boys, enlist.

Army-Hymn: “Old Hundred”

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

Holmes, Sr. (1809–1894), was a doctor and well-known author who published this prayer in 1862. His son served in the Union Army and later became a Supreme Court Justice.

O Lord of Hosts! Almighty King!

Behold the sacrifice we bring!

To every arm Thy strength impart,

Thy spirit shed through every heart!

Wake in our breasts the living fires,

The holy faith that warmed our sires;

Thy hand hath made our Nation free:

To die for her is serving Thee.

Be Thou a pillared flame to show

The midnight snare, the silent foe;

And when the battle thunders loud,

Still guide us in its moving cloud.

God of all nations! Sovereign Lord!

In thy dread name we draw the sword,

We lift the starry flag on high

That fills with light our stormy sky.

From Treason’s rent, from Murder’s stain

Guard Thou its folds till Peace shall reign,—

Till fort and field, till shore and sea

Join our loud anthem, PRAISE TO THEE!

On Board the Cumberland

GEORGE HENRY BOKER

The Confederacy’s ironclad Merrimack (known also as the Virginia) rammed and destroyed the blockading U.S.S. Cumberland in Hampton Roads, Virginia, on March 7, 1862, but not before the Cumberland inflicted some damage on the ironclad. (On March 9, the Union sent out its ironclad, the Monitor, to battle the Merrimack.)

“Stand to your guns, men!” Morris cried.

Small need to pass the word;

Our men at quarters ranged themselves,

Before the drum was heard.

And then began the sailors’ jests:

“What thing is that, I say?”

“A long-shore meeting-house adrift

Is standing down the bay!”

A frown came over Morris’ face;

The strange, dark craft he knew;

“That is the iron Merrimac,

Manned by a Rebel crew.

“So shot your guns, and point them straight;

Before this day goes by,

We’ll try of what her metal’s made.”

A cheer was our reply.

“Remember, boys, this flag of ours

Has seldom left its place;

And where it falls, the deck it strikes

Is covered with disgrace.

“I ask but this: or sink or swim,

Or live or nobly die,

My last sight upon earth may be

To see that ensign fly!”

Meanwhile the shapeless iron mass

Came moving o’er the wave,

As gloomy as a passing hearse,

As silent as the grave.

Her ports were closed; from stem to stern

No sign of life appeared.

We wondered, questioned, strained our eyes,

Joked—everything but feared.

She reached our range. Our broadside rang,

Our heavy pivots roared;

And shot and shell, a fire of hell,

Against her sides we poured.

God’s mercy! from her sloping roof

The iron tempest glanced,

As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch,

And round her leaped and danced;

Or when against her dusky hull

We struck a fair, full blow,

The mighty, solid iron globes

Were crumbled up like snow.

On, on, with fast increasing s...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Dover Books On Americana
• Title page
• Copyright Page
• Note
• Contents
• BEFORE THE WAR
• 1861
• 1862
• 1863
• 1864
• 1865
• POST-WAR
• Sources
• Back Cover