Some are wounded by Minie shot, Some are pierced by the sharp bayonet, Others are crushed by the horses' hoof, Shall I tell what they did to meet this fate? Why did they fall to this piteous state Neath the rifle's crack and the cannon's boom? Orders arrived, and the river they crossed; And floated-sad corpses-away from the place. Orders they heard, and they scaled the height, Sudden flashed on them a sheet of flame Fifteen thousand in wounded and killed, "Our loss!" Whose loss? Let demagogues say 'Tis their loss! but the tears in their weeping eyes Hide Cabinet, President, Generals,—all ; And they only can see a cold form that lies They cannot discriminate men or means, They only demand that this blundering cease. In their frenzied grief they would end such scenes, Though that end be—even with traitors-peace. Is thy face from thy people turned, O God? Is thy arm for the nation no longer strong? We cry from our homes-the dead cry from the sodHow long, oh, our righteous God! how long? [Certain politicians proposed, as a means of ending the war, that a new confederacy or union should be formed, from which the New England States should be excluded because of their implacable hostility to slavery and their consequent obnoxiousness to the South. There were many spirited replies to this proposal, the best of which is this poem.-EDITOR.] "Who deserves greatness Deserves your hate Yon common cry of curs, whose breath I loathe Coriolanus. "Hark! hark! the dogs do bark," Nursery Rhyme. ONS of New England in the fray, SON Do you hear the clamor behind your back? Do you hear the yelping of Blanche and Tray? Sweetheart, and all the mongrel pack? Girded well with her ocean crags, Little our mother heeds their noise; Her eyes are fixed on crimson flags : Do you hear them say that the patriot fire Do you hear the hissing voice which saith A pariah bearing the nation's hate? Sons, who have peopled the gorgeous West, It grows as ever its parent grew,- Of your churches ring with her ancient voice, And the song of your children sweetly tells How true was the land of your fathers' choice Do you hear the traitors who bid you speak To coasts where the gray Pacific roars, Spirits of sons who side by side In a hundred battles fought and fell, In the isles where the shades of heroes dwell,— And ruffled the calm which crowns you there? The shame that recreants have confest The plot that floats in the troubled air? Sons of New England, here and there, Say, do you hear the cowards' cry ? January 19, 1863. |