The heart and soul of a people are disclosed in their artistic expressiveness. This is especially so in the poetry reflecting their most cherished aspirations, the values they hold dear, the motives that move them to uncommon action. We share the following poems to assist the researcher in gaining a perspective and an understanding of what it was that prompted the Southron to seek independence as the people styling themselves: the Confederate States of America.
“Hath not
the morning dawned with added light?/ And shall not the evening call another
star/ Out of the infinite regions of the
night,/ To mark this day in Heaven? At last we are/ A notion among nations; and the world/ Shall soon behold in many a distant
port/ Another flag unfurled!/ Now, come what may, whose favour
need we court?/ And under God, whose
thunder need we fear?/ Thank Him who
placed us here/ Beneath so kind a
sky—the very Sun/ Takes part with us;
and on our errands run/ All breezes of
the ocean; dew and rain/ Do noiseless
battle for us; and the Year/ And all the
gentle daughters in her train,/ March in
our ranks, and in our service wield/
Long spears of golden grain!/ A
yellow blossom as fairy shield,/ June
flings her azure banner to the wind,/
While in the order of their birth/
Her sisters pass, and many an ample field/ Grows white beneath their steps, till now,
behold/ Its endless sheets unfold/ The snow of Southern Summers! Let the earth/ Rejoice! Beneath those fleeces soft and warm/ Our happy land shall sleep/ In a repose as deep/ as if we lay intrenched
behind/ Whole leagues of Russian ice and
Arctic storm./ II./ And what if, mad with wrongs themselves have
wrought,/ In their own treachery
caught,/ By their own fears made
bold,/ And leagued with him of
old,/ Who long since in the limits of
the North/ Set up his evil throne, and
warred with God--/ What if, both and
blended in their rage,/ Our foes should
fling us down their mortal gage,/ And
with a hostile step profane our sod!/ We
shall not shrink, my brothers, but go forth/
To meet them, marshelled by the Lord of
Hosts,/ And overshadowed by the mighty
ghosts/ Of Moultrie and Eutaw—who shall
foil/ Auxiliars
such as these? Nor these alone/ But every stock and stone/ Shall help us; but the very soil,/ And all the generous wealth it gives to
toil,/ And all for which we love our
noble land,/ Shall fight beside, and
through us; sea and strand,/ The heart of
woman, and her hand,/ Tree, fruit, and
flower, and every influence,/ Gentle or
grave, or grand;/ The winds in our defence/
Shall seem to blow; to us the hills shall lend/ Their firmness and their calm;/ And in our stiffened sinews we shall
blend/ The strength of pine and
palm!/ III./ Nor would we shun the battleground,/ Though weak as we are strong;/ Call up the clashing elements around,/ And test the right
and wrong!/ On one side, creeds that
dare to teach/ What Christ and Paul
refrained to preach;/ Codes built upon a
broken pledge,/
And charity that whets a poniard’s edge;/ Fair schemes that leave the neighbouring poor/
To starve and shiver at the schemer’s door,/ While in the worlds most liberal ranks
enrolled,/ He turns some vast
philanthropy to gold;/ Religion, taking
every mortal form/ But that a pure and
Christian faith makes warm,/ Where not
to vile fanatic passion urged,/ Or not
in vague philosophies submerged,/
Repulsive with all Pharisaic leaven,/
And making laws to stay the laws of Heaven!/ And on the other, scorn of sordid gain,/ Unblemished honour,
truth without a stain,/ Faith, justice,
reverence, charitable wealth,/ And, for
the poor and humble, laws which give,/
Not the mean right to buy the right to live,/ But life, and home, and health!/ To doubt the end were want of trust in
God,/ Who, if He has decreed/ That we must pass a redder sea/ Than that which rang to Miriam’s holy
glee,/ Will surely raise at need/ A Moses with his rod!/ IV./
but let our fears—if fears we have—be still,/ And turn us to the future! Could we climb/ Some mighty Alp, and view the coming
time,/ The rapturous sight would
fill/ Our eyes with happy tears!/ Not only for the glories which the
years/ Shall bring us; not for lands
from sea to sea,/ And wealth, and power,
and peace, though these shall be;/ But
for the distant peoples we shall bless,/ And the hushed murmurs of a world’s
distress:/ For, to give labour to the poor,/
The whole sad planet o’er,/ And
serve from want and crime the humblest door,/
Is one among the many ends for which/
God makes us great and rich!/ The
hour perchance is not yet wholly ripe/
When all shall own it, but the type/
Whereby we shall be known in every land/
Is that vast gulf which lips our Southern strand,/ And through the cold, untempered
oceanpours/
Its genial streams, that far off Arctic shores/ May sometimes catch upon the softened
breeze/ Strange tropic warmth and hints
of summer seas. (By
Henry Timrod).
Timrod was dubbed the “Poet Laureate of
the Confederacy” by famed British poet, Alfred Lord Tennyson. Henry Timrod, a native of South Carolina,
served honourably with the 20th South
Carolina Infantry in the War for Southern Independence, until illness forced
his separation from service. He
thereafter served the cause of independence most gallantly in literary endeavours. He
departed this life in 1867 during the holocaust of Reconstruction.
“A fairy ring drawn in the crimson of a battle plain, --/ From whose weird circle every loathesome thing/ And sight and sound and pain/ Are banished, while about in the air,/ And from the ground and from the low-hung skies,/ Throng in a vision fair/ As ever lit a prophet’s eyes,/ Gleams of that unseen world/ That lies about us, rainbow tinted shapes/ With starry wings unfurled,/ Poised for a moment on such airy capes/ As pierce the golden foam/ Not on themselves, but on some outstretched hand,/ That once a single mind suffice to quell/ The malice of a tyrant; let them know/ That each may crowd in every well-aimed blow,/ Not the poor strength alone of arm and brand,/ But the whole spirit of a mighty land!/ Bid liberty rejoice! Aye, though its day be far or near, these clouds shall yet be red/ With the large promise of the coming ray./ Meanwhile, with that calm courage that can smile/ Amid the terrors of the wildest fray,/ Let us among the charms of Art awhile/ Fleet the deep gloom away:/ Nor yet forget that on each hand and head/ Rest the dear rights for which we fight and pray. (By Henry Timrod).
This poem was publicly read by Timrod at the grand re-opening of the Richmond Theatre in 1862.
“To the brave all homage render!/ Weep, ye skies of June!/ With a radiance pure and tender,/ Shine O saddened moon;/ Dead upon the field of glory!/ Hero fit for song and story--/ Lies our bold dragoon./ Well they learned, whose hands have slain him,/ Braver knightlier foe/ Never fought ‘gainst Moor or Paynim--/ Rode at Templestowe:/ With a mien how high and joyous,/ ‘Gainst the hordes that would destroy us,/ Went he forth, we know,/ Nevermore, alas! Shall sabre/ Gleam around his crest--/ Fought his fight, fulfilled his labour,/ Stilled his manly breast--/ All unheard sweet nature’s cadence,/ Trump of fame and voice of maidens,/ Now he takes his rest./ Earth that all too soon hath bound him,/ Gently wrap his clay!/ Linger lovingly around him,/ Light of dying day!/ Softly fall, ye summer showers;/ Birds and bees among the flowers/ Make the gloom seem gay!/ There, throughout the coming ages--/ When his sword is rust,/ And his deeds in classic pages--/ Mindful of her trust/ Shall Virginia, bending lowly,/ Still a ceaseless vigil holy/ Keep above his dust.”
Written by John Reuben Thompson.
“’All quiet along the Potomac’, they say,/ Except now and then a stray picket/ Is shot as he walks on his beat to and fro,/ By a rifleman hid in the thicket ./ ‘Tis nothing. A Private or two now and then/ Will not count in the news of the battle;/ Not an officer lost!/ Only one of the men/ Moaning out all alone, the death rattle./ All quiet along the Potomac tonight,/ Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming,/ Their tents in the rays of the clear Autumn moon/ The light of the watch-fires are gleaming;/ There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread/ As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,/ And thinks of the two in the low trundle bed,/ Far away in the cot on the mountain./ His musket falls slack, and his face, dark and grim,/ Grows gentle with memories tender,/ As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,/ For their mother, may Heaven defend her./ The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then/ That night when the love yet unspoken/ Leaped up to his lips when low-murmured vows/ Were pledged to be ever unbroken./ Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,/ He dashes off tears that are welling,/ And gathers his gun closer up to its place/ As if to keep down the heart-swelling./ He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree,/ The footstep is lagging and weary;/ Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,/ Toward the shades of the forest so dreary./ Hark! Was it the night wind that rustled the leaves?/ Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?/ It looks like a rifle—‘Ah Mary, goodbye!’/ And the lifeblood is ebbing and splashing./ All quiet along the Potomac tonight,/ No sound save the rush of the river;/ While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead--/ The picket’s off duty forever.” By Private Lamar Fontaine, based on an actual happening, involving his comrade Private john Moore, during First Manassas. Fontaine had completed his picket duty and had wakened his friend, Moore, who, upon arriving stirred up the coals of fire to warm himself. The resulting glow exposed his position to the enemy, and he was killed instantly. Sometime later this poem was put to music by John Hill Hewitt, known affectionately to Southerner’s as “Bard of the Stars and Bars” (the latter referring to the First National Flag of the Confederacy).
“Just as the Spring laughing through the strife,/ 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 alabastre arms of death,/ Our young Marcellus sleeps./ Nobler and grander than the child of Rome,/ Curbing his chariot steed,/ The knightly scion of a Southern home/ Dazzled the land with deeds./ Gentlest and bravest in the battle’s brunt--/ The champion of the truth--/ He bore his banner in 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 pennon droops that led the sacred band/ 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, the lips and eyes,/ Couched in their marble slumber, flashed the grace of a divine surprise./ O mother of a blessed soul on high!/ Thy tears may soon be shed--/ Think of thy boy with 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 amaranthine wreath,/ Twining the victor’s crown. Written by John Ryder Randall.