Your search returned 64 results in 25 document sections:

1 2 3
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 7. (ed. Frank Moore), The Second Louisiana: may 27th, 1863. (search)
The Second Louisiana: may 27th, 1863. by George H, Boker. Dark as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dread mass, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over a ruined land-- So, still and orderly, Arm to arm, knee to knee, Waiting the great event, Stands the Black Regiment. Down the long dusky line Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine; And the bright bayonet, Bristling and firmly set, Flashed with a purpose grand, Long ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum Told them their time had come, Told them what work was sent For the Black Regiment. “Now,” the flag-sergeant cried, “Though death and hell betide, Let the whole nation see If we are fit to be Free in this land; or bound Down, like the whining hound-- Bound with red stripes of pain In our old chains again!” Oh I what a shout there went From the Black Regiment! “Charge!” Trump and drum awoke; Onward the bondmen broke; Bayonet and sabre-stroke Vainly opposed their ru
March along. by George H. Boker. Soldiers are we from the mountain and valley-- Soldiers are we from the hill and the plain; Under the flag of our fathers we rally; Death, for its sake, is but living again. Then march along, gay and strong, March to battle with a song! March, march along! We have a history told of our nation-- We have a name that must never go down! Heroes achieved it through toil and privation! Bear it on, bright with its ancient renown! Then march along, etc. Who that shall dare say the flag waving o'er us, Which floated in glory from Texas to Maine, Must fall, where our ancestors bore it before us, Writes his own fate on the roll of the plain! Then march along, etc. Look at it, traitors, and blush to behold it! Quail as it flashes its stars in the sun! Think you a hand in the nation will fold it, While there's a hand that can level a gun? Then march along, etc. Carry it onward till victory earn it The rights it once owned in the land of the free; Then, in
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 7. (ed. Frank Moore), Hymn for the eighty-seventh Anniversary of American Independence. (search)
Hymn for the eighty-seventh Anniversary of American Independence. by George H. Boker. Lord, the people of the land In thy presence humbly stand; On this day, when thou didst free Men of old from tyranny, We, their children, bow to thee. Help us, Lord, our only trust! We are helpless, we are dust! All our homes are red with blood; Long our grief we have withstood; Every lintel, each door-post, Drips, at tidings from the host, With the blood of some one lost. Help us, Lord, our only trust! We are helpless, we are dust! Comfort, Lord, the grieving one Who bewails a stricken son! Comfort, Lord, the weeping wife, In her long, long widowed life, Brooding o'er the fatal strife! Help us, Lord, our only trust! We are helpless, we are dust! On our nation's day of birth, Bless thy own long-favored earth! Urge the soldier with thy will! Aid their leaders with thy skill! Let them hear thy trumpet thrill! Help u.. Lord, our only trust! We are belples, we are dust! Lord, we only fight for peace, F
Benson J. Lossing, Pictorial Field Book of the Civil War. Volume 2., Chapter 23: siege and capture of Vicksburg and Port Hudson. (search)
f negroes fighting, or being disciplined into efficient troops, that the intelligence of these tests was received by the loyal people with the most generous enthusiasm. “Niggers won't fight,” ah, ha! “Niggers won't fight,” ah, ha! “They are no good for war, One in a hundred.” Let Mississippi's shore, Flooded with negro gore, Echo back evermore-- “See our six hundred!” said a writer in the Albany Evening Journal, in imitation of Tennyson's Charge of the six hundred at Balaklava; and George H. Boker, of Philadelphia, wrote that noble tribute to the valor of the Second Louisiana, which closes with:--Hundreds on hundreds fell; But they are resting well. Scourges and shackles strong Never shall do them wrong. O, to the living few, Soldiers, be just and true! Hail them as comrades tried, Fight with them side by side; Never, in field or tent, Scorn the black regiment. The Nationals gained ground continually, as hour after hour wore away. They crossed Big Sandy Creek, and, at f
Benson J. Lossing, Pictorial Field Book of the Civil War. Volume 3., Chapter 21: closing events of the War.--assassination of the President. (search)
few of his followers fled into Texas. So ended the Civil War, in the field; and on the anniversary of the Declaration of the nation's Independence, a few weeks later, July 4, 1865. and just four years from the time when the National Congress met in the Capitol at Washington, and proceeded to make provision for suppressing the rebellion and saving the Republic, the Loyal League, of The National Capitol. Philadelphia, chanted the following hymn, Written for the occasion by George H. Boker, of Philadelphia. to the air of Old hundred : Thank God! the bloody days are past; Our patient hopes are crowned at last; And sounds of bugle, drum, and fife, But lead our heroes home from strife! Thank God! there beams o'er land and sea, Our blazing Star of Victory; And everywhere, from main to main, The old flag flies and rules again! Thank God! Oh dark and trodden race, Your Lord no longer veils his face; But through the clouds and woes of fight, Shines on your souls a better ligh
73. upon the Hill before Centreville. July Twenty-first, 1861. by George H. Boker. I'll tell you what I heard that day. I heard the great guns, far away, Boom after boom. Their sullen sound Shook all the shuddering air around, And shook, ah me! my shrinking ear, And downward shook the hanging tear That, in despite of manhood's pride, Rolled o'er my face a scalding tide. And then I prayed. O God! I prayed, As never stricken saint, who laid His hot cheek to the holy tomb Of Jesus, in the midnight gloom. “What saw I?” Little. Clouds of dust; Great squares of men, with standards thrust Against their course; dense columns crowned With billowing steel. Then, bound on bound, The long black lines of cannon poured Behind the horses, streaked and gored With sweaty speed. Anon shot by, Like a lone meteor of the sky, A single horseman; and he shone His bright face on me, and was gone. All these, with rolling drums, with cheers, With songs familiar to my ears, Passed under the far-ha
98. Ad Poetas. by George II. Boker. O brother bards, why stand ye silent all, Amidst these days of noble strife, While drum and fife, and the fierce trumpet-call, Awake the land to life? Now is the time, if ever time there was, To strike aloud the sounding lyre, To touch the heroes of our holy cause Heart-deep with ancient fire. 'Tis not for all, like Norman Taillefere, To sing before the warlike horde Our fathers' glories, the great trust we bear, And strike with harp and sword. Nor yet to frame a lay whose moving rhyme Shall flow in music North and South, And fill with passion, till the end of time, The nation's choral mouth. Yet surely, while our country rocks and reels, Your sweetly-warbled olden strains Would mitigate the deadly shock she feels, And soothe her in her pains. Some knight of old romance, in full career, Heard o'er his head the sky-lark sing, And pausing, leaned upon his bloody spear, Lost in that simple thing. If by your songs no heroes shall be made To look dea
22. Zagonyi. by George H. Boker. Bold captain of the Body-Guard, I'll troll a stave to thee! My voice is somewhat harsh and hard, And rough my minstrelsy. I've cheered until my throat is sore For how our boys at Beaufort bore; Yet here's a cheer for thee! I hear thy jingling spurs and reins, Thy sabre at thy knee; The blood runs lighter through my veins, As I before me see Thy hundred men, with thrusts and blows, Ride down a thousand stubborn foes, The foremost led by thee. With pistol snap and rifle crack-- Mere salvos fired to honor thee-- Ye plunge, and stamp, and shoot, and hack The way your swords make free; Then back again — the path is wide This time — ye gods! it was a ride, The ride they took with thee! No guardsman of the whole command Halts, quails, or turns to flee; With bloody spur and steady hand They gallop where they see Thy leading plume stream out ahead, O'er flying, wounded, dying, dead; They can but follow thee. So, captain of the Body-Guard, I pledge a health
55. ode to America. by Geo. H. Boker. No more of girls and wine, No more of pastoral joys, No after-sighing for some antique line Of bearded kings who, at their nation's birth, As children play with toys, Made merry with our earth: No more, no more of these! The girls are pale; The wine is drunken to the less; Still are the bleatings of the woolly fold; The olden kings look thin and cold, Like dim belated ghosts That hurrying sail Toward their dark graves, Along the brightening coasts, Chased by the golden lances hurled From the young sun above his cloudy world. My country, let me turn to thee, With love and pride that glow Pure as twin-altar fires that blow Their flames together to one Deity. Look where I may, O land beneath the iron sway Of the strong hand;-- O land gored through and through By thy own faithless brand; Land of once happy homes, To whose now darkened doors The hand of sorrow comes, Early and late, and pours, With no soft prelude, or no warning beat, Her urn of bit
58. a battle Hymn. by George H. Boker. God, to thee we humbly bow, With hand unarmed and naked brow; Musket, lance and sheathed sword At thy feet we lay, O Lord! Gone is all the soldier's boast In the valor of the host: Kneeling here, we do our most. Of ourselves we nothing know: Thou, and thou alone canst show, By the favor of thy hand, Who has drawn the guilty brand. If our foemen have the right, Show thy judgment in our sight Through the fortunes of the fight! If our cause be pure and just, Nerve our courage with thy trust: Scatter, in thy bitter wrath, All who cross the nation's path: May the baffled traitors fly, As the vapors from the sky When thy raging winds are high! God of mercy, some must fall In thy holy cause. Not all Hope to sing the victor's lay, When the sword is laid away. Brief will be the prayers then said; Falling at thy altar dead, Take the sacrifice, instead. Now, O God! once more we rise, Marching on beneath thy eyes; And we draw the sacred sword In thy nam
1 2 3