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Benson J. Lossing, Pictorial Field Book of the Civil War. Volume 2., Chapter 14: movements of the Army of the Potomac.--the Monitor and Merrimack. (search)
and sing their simple and stirring songs. They were diffusing sunshine through the army by delighting crowds of soldiers who listened to their voices, when their career of usefulness was suddenly arrested by the following order: By direction of General McClellan, the permit given to the Hutchinson family to sing in the camp, and their pass to cross the Potomac, are revoked, and they will not be allowed to sing to the troops. Why not? The answer was in the fact, that they had sung Whittier's stirring song, lately written, to the tune of Luther's Hymn, Ein feste burg ist unser Gott, in which, among eight similar verses, was the following:--What gives the wheat-field blades of steel? What points the rebel cannon? What sets the roaring rabble's heel On th‘ old star-spangled pennon? What breaks the oath Of th‘ men oa th‘ South? What whets the knife For the Union's life? Hark to the answer: slavery! The people were exceedingly impatient, and were more disposed to censure the Secre<
Benson J. Lossing, Pictorial Field Book of the Civil War. Volume 2., Chapter 18: Lee's invasion of Maryland, and his retreat toward Richmond. (search)
marched through Frederick, his troops passed over that bridge. He had been informed that many National flags were flying in the city, and he gave orders for them all to be hauled down. Patriotic Barbara's was displayed from one of the dormer-windows, seen in the sketch of her house here given, from a drawing made by the writer in September, 1866, in which, just beyond it, the b ridge is seen. Her fla was pulled down. The remainder of the story has been told in the following words of John G. Whittier:--Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten ; Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down; In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced: the old flag met his sight. “Halt!” the dust-brown ranks stood fast. “Fire!” out blazed the rifle-blast. It shivered the window, pane and
Benson J. Lossing, Pictorial Field Book of the Civil War. Volume 3., Chapter 22: prisoners.-benevolent operations during the War.--readjustment of National affairs.--conclusion. (search)
uch conviction, and satisfied that such proof is not only conclusive, but abundant, the charge is here made, and put on record, that the world may know somewhat of the character of the men who conceived, planned, and carried on a rebellion against a beneficent Government, without any other excuse than that of the sorely tempted sinner — the overpowering influence of that depravity which the slave system generated by allowing an unbridled exercise of the baser passions of human nature John G. Whittier wrote, during the war:--The poison plant the fathers spared All else is overtopping. East, West, South, North, It curses the earth; All justice dies, And fraud and lies Live only in its shadow. What gives the wheat-field blades of steel? What points the rebel cannon? What sets the roaring rabble's heel On the old star-spangled pennon? What breaks the oath Of the men of the South? What whets the knife For the Union's life? Hark to the answer: Slavery! In the Convention that framed th
Benson J. Lossing, Pictorial Field Book of the Civil War. Volume 3., Index. (search)
proclamation, 2.64; modifies it by order of the President, 2.65; why he did not re-enforce Mulligan at Lexington, 2.70; moves with a large force against Price, 2.71; at Jefferson City, 2.78; his pursuit of Price, 2.79; at Springfield, 2.81; superseded by Hunter, 2.83; ovation to at St. Louis, 2.84; assigned to the Mountain Department, II 359; with Blenker's division, 2.371; at Strasburg, 2.395. French, Gen., at the battle of Fredericksburg, 2.493. Frietchie, Barbara, story of told by Whittier, 2.466. Front Royal, Kenly driven out of by Ewell, 2.391. Frost, Daniel M., camp of Missouri State troops formed by near St. Louis, 1.467; compelled to surrender by Lyons, 1.468. Fugitive Slave Law, remarks on the, 1.67. G. Gaines's Farm, battle of, 3.422. Gala day in Charleston, i, 98. Galveston, surrender of to Commander Renshaw, 2.538; capture of by Magruder, 1.594: blockade of reestablished by Farragut, 2.594. Gardner, Gen. Frank K., his defense of Port Hudson ag
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 3. (ed. Frank Moore), chapter 21 (search)
Whittier and the Alabama planter.--On Monday, the New England Poet, John G. Whittier, passed a few hours here on the way to his lovely home on the banks of the Merrimac, whence he has given to theJohn G. Whittier, passed a few hours here on the way to his lovely home on the banks of the Merrimac, whence he has given to the world so many ringing lyrics and striking poems, stirring the blood like the blast of a trumpet, redolent of the airs of freedom, or tender with the emotions of friendship, charmingly descriptive of till further to the rich stores of American literature which he has already adorned so much. Mr. Whittier manifests a deep interest in the cause of the country, and watches with an anxious eye the co and courtesy, and admitted that Southerners generally received the same treatment. Finally, Whittier, after attending him to some of the desirable places of resort, told him that, as he was now hed it not have been a sight worth seeing — that conclave in the Liberator office, with Garrison, Whittier, Phillips, Douglass, and the Alabama planter, in the foreground? The planter went to his home
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 3. (ed. Frank Moore), chapter 280 (search)
93. at Port Royal--1861. by J. G. Whittier. The tent-lights glimmer on the land, The ship-lights on the sea; The night-wind smooths with drifting sand Our track on lone Tybee. At last our grating keels outslide, Our good boats forward swing; And while we ride the land-locked tide, Our negroes row and sing. For dear the bondman holds his gifts Of music and of song: The gold that kindly Nature sifts Among his sands of wrong; The power to make his toiling days And poor home-comforts please; The quaint relief of mirth that plays With sorrow's minor keys. Another glow than sunset's fire Has filled the West with light, Where field and garner, barn and byre, Are blazing through the night. The land is wild with fear and hate, The rout runs mad and fast; From hand to hand, from gate to gate, The flaming brand is passed. The lurid glow falls strong across Dark faces broad with smiles; Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss, That fire yon blazing piles. With oar-strokes timing to their song,
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 1. (ed. Frank Moore), chapter 334 (search)
101. Ein Feste Burg Ist Unser Gott. by John G. Whittier. （Luther's Hymn.) We wait beneath the furnace blast The pangs of transformation; Not painlessly doth God recast And mould anew the nation. Hot burns the fire Where wrongs expire; Nor spares the hand That from the land Uproots the ancient evil. The hand-breadth cloud the sages feared, Its bloody rain is dropping; The poison plant the fathers spared, All else is overtopping. East, West, South, North, It curses the earth: All justice dies, And fraud and lies Live only in its shadow. What gives the wheat field blades of steel? What points the rebel cannon? What sets the roaring rabble's heel On the old star-spangled pennon? What breaks the oath Of the men oa the South? What whets the knife For the Union's life?-- Hark to the answer :--Slavery! Then waste no blows on lesser foes, In strife unworthy freemen. God lifts to-day the veil, and shows The features of the demon! O North and South, Its victims both, Can ye not cry,
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 1. (ed. Frank Moore), chapter 469 (search)
155. the crisis. by J. G. Whittier. The crisis presses on us; face to face with us it stands, With solemn lips of question, like the Sphynx in Egypt's sands! This day we fashion Destiny, our web of fate we spin; This day for all hereafter choose we holiness or sin; Even now from starry Gerizim, or Ebal's cloudy crown, We call the dews of blessing, or the bolts of cursing down! By all for which the Martyrs bore their agony and shame; By all the warning words of truth with which the Prophets came; By the Future which awaits us; by all the hope which cast Their faint and trembling beams across the blackness of the Past, And in the awful name of Him who for earth's freedom died; O ye people! O my brothers! let us choose the righteous side! So shall the Northern pioneer go joyfully on his way, To wed Penobscot's waters to San Francisco's bay; To make the rugged places smooth, and sow the vales with grain, And bear, with Liberty and Law, the Bible in his train; The mighty West shall
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Index, Volume 1. (ed. Frank Moore), Index. (search)
dy, P. 2 The Bones of Washington, P. 127 The call for Volunteers, P. 53 The Camp War-Song, P. 103 The charge on the Twelve Hundred; or the Fairfax Stampede, P. 141 The cockade Black Diamonds, P. 78 The Crisis, by J. G. Whittier, P. 123 The departure, P. 53 The First Defeat of the rebels, Doc. 59 The flag of Fort Sumter, P. 2 The Gathering, P. 63 The Great Bell Roland, P. 29 The Heavenly Omen, P. 72 The Hempen Cravat, by R. H. Stoddard Whiskey, a necessity of life at the South, P. 84 White Cloud, the Indian Chief, D. 43 Whitehall, N. Y., D. 42 Whiting, Sam., Capt., P. 118 Whitney, Addison O., killed at Baltimore, D. 53 Whitney, Eli, Int. 30 Whittier, John G., P. 85, 123 Whittingham, Wm. R., Bishop of Md., circular letter of, D. 71; Doc. 252 Whitworth guns, D. 77 Wickliffe, Col., of Ky., D. 95 Wigfall, —, notice of, D. 6; his arrest spoken of, D. 12; on Beauregard's staff,
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 4. (ed. Frank Moore), chapter 5 (search)
5. the Watchers. by John G. Whittier. Beside a stricken field I stood; On the torn turf, on grass, on wood, Hung heavily the dew of blood. Still in their fresh mounds lay the slain; But all the air was quick with pain, And gusty sighs and tearful rain. Two angels, each with drooping head, And folded wings, and noiseless tread, Watched by that valley of the dead. The one, with forehead saintly bland, And lips of blessing, not command, Leaned, weeping, on her olive wand. The other's brows were scarred and knit; His restless eyes were watch-fires lit, His hands for battle-gauntlets fit. “How long!” --I knew the voice of Peace, ”Is there no respite?--no release?-- When shall the hopeless quarrel cease? ”Oh Lord, how long!--One human soul Is more than any parchment scroll, Or any flag the winds unroll. ”What price was Ellsworth's, young and brave? How weigh the gift that Lyon gave? Or count the cost of Winthrop's grave? ”Oh brother! if thine eye can see, Tell how and wh
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