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Browsing named entities in a specific section of The Photographic History of The Civil War: in ten volumes, Thousands of Scenes Photographed 1861-65, with Text by many Special Authorities, Volume 9: Poetry and Eloquence. (ed. Francis Trevelyan Miller). Search the whole document.

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Montrose (Pennsylvania, United States) (search for this): chapter 6
e no yearning prayers arise. The lips are mute and closed the eyes- My home is in the bivouac. William Gordon McCabe. Dreaming in the trenches I picture her there in the quaint old room, Where the fading fire-light starts and falls, Alone in the twilight's tender gloom With the shadows that dance on the dim-lit walls. Alone, while those faces look silently down From their antique frames in a grim repose— Slight scholarly Ralph in his Oxford gown, And stanch Sir Alan, who died for Montrose. There are gallants gay in crimson and gold, There are smiling beauties with powdered hair, But she sits there, fairer a thousand-fold, Leaning dreamily back in her low arm-chair. ‘The voices of the long ago’ The war-time home scene from Virginia gives McCabe's line a more touching pathos. The old-fashioned croquet on the lawn, where the little girl has sat down and delayed the game, is in keeping with the quaint hats and crinoline skirts. The house and its vine-clad arbor have th<
Fredericksburg, Va. (Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 6
fill life with warmth and hope. The patriotism that leads to enlistment, or the ardor that springs from war's wild alarms, must sooner or later give way for a time to the simple human emotions that even a child can share and understand. East, west, home's best. Christmas night of 1862 William Gordon McCabe entered the Confederate Army in the artillery and rose from private to captain. At the time of writing this poem he was with the Army of Northern Virginia encamped about Fredericksburg. The sanguinary repulse of Burnside was only twelve days in the past, but the thoughts of the soldiers were turned toward family and home. The wintry blast goes wailing by, The snow is falling overhead; I hear the lonely sentry's tread, And distant watch-fires light the sky. Dim forms go flitting through the gloom; The soldiers cluster round the blaze To talk of other Christmas days, And softly speak of home and home. My sabre swinging overhead Gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow, W
Potomac River (United States) (search for this): chapter 6
tering eyes, Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. 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; 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! All quiet along the Potomac: a civil-war sentry on his beat This Union picket by the Potomac River bank, clasping his musket in the chilling blast as he tramps his beat, conjures up the original of Ethel Beers' historic poem. The sympathy of the poet was not misplaced. Picket duty was an experience in every soldier's life. Regiments were detailed at stated intervals to march from their camps to the outer lines and there disposition would be made of the men in the following order: about one half of the regiment would be placed in what was known as the ‘reserve,’ while the balance o
Petersburg, Va. (Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 6
ve a joyous welcome on their return. McCabe's verses on this theme are classic. And the roseate shadows of fading light Softly clear steal over the sweet young face, Where a woman's tenderness blends to-night With the guileless pride of a knightly race. Her hands lie clasped in a listless way On the old Romance—which she holds on her knee— Of Tristram, the bravest of knights in the fray, And Iseult, who waits by the sounding sea. And her proud, dark eyes wear a softened look As she watches the dying embers fall: Perhaps she dreams of the knight in the book, Perhaps of the pictures that smile on the wall. What fancies I wonder are thronging her brain, For her cheeks flush warm with a crimson glow! Perhaps—ah! me, how foolish and vain! But I'd give my life to believe it so! Well, whether I ever march home again To offer my love and a stainless name, Or whether I die at the head of my men,— I'll be true to the end all the same. Petersburg Trenches, 1864. William Gordon
Aquia Creek (Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 6
d the Army of the Potomac from destruction by the desperate onsets of Lee, but the New England poet preserves a scene which has a human, not a military significance. Was there ever message sweeter Than that one from Malvern Hill, From a grim old fellow,—you remember? Dying in the dark at Malvern Hill. With his rough face turned a little, On a heap of scarlet sand, They found him, just within the thicket, With a picture in his hand,— Off to the war—embarkation of ninth army corps at Aquia creek landing, in February, 1863 Elizabeth Stuart Phelps' poem A message breathes a faith that inspired the mothers of many men who stand expectantly in this picture, and of many thousands more who, like them, were ‘off to the war’ in 1861-1865. Proud, indeed, were the sweethearts and wives of their ‘heroes’ marching away to the big camps or floating down the stream on the transports. Honor and glory awaited these sons and brothers who were helping to serve their cause. To each fon
New England (United States) (search for this): chapter 6
quiet along the Potomac to-night— 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! Ethel Lynn Beers. A message The battle of Malvern Hill here referred to was the fierce concluding engagement of the Seven days battles around Richmond which terminated McClellan's Peninsula campaign. It was that battle on July 1, 1862, that saved the Army of the Potomac from destruction by the desperate onsets of Lee, but the New England poet preserves a scene which has a human, not a military significance. Was there ever message sweeter Than that one from Malvern Hill, From a grim old fellow,—you remember? Dying in the dark at Malvern Hill. With his rough face turned a little, On a heap of scarlet sand, They found him, just within the thicket, With a picture in his hand,— Off to the war—embarkation of ninth army corps at Aquia creek landing, in February, 1863 Elizabeth Stuart Phelps' poem A message breathes
Malvern Hill (Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 6
e on July 1, 1862, that saved the Army of the Potomac from destruction by the desperate onsets of Lee, but the New England poet preserves a scene which has a human, not a military significance. Was there ever message sweeter Than that one from Malvern Hill, From a grim old fellow,—you remember? Dying in the dark at Malvern Hill. With his rough face turned a little, On a heap of scarlet sand, They found him, just within the thicket, With a picture in his hand,— Off to the war—embarkation oMalvern Hill. With his rough face turned a little, On a heap of scarlet sand, They found him, just within the thicket, With a picture in his hand,— Off to the war—embarkation of ninth army corps at Aquia creek landing, in February, 1863 Elizabeth Stuart Phelps' poem A message breathes a faith that inspired the mothers of many men who stand expectantly in this picture, and of many thousands more who, like them, were ‘off to the war’ in 1861-1865. Proud, indeed, were the sweethearts and wives of their ‘heroes’ marching away to the big camps or floating down the stream on the transports. Honor and glory awaited these sons and brothers who were helping to
Oxford (Mississippi, United States) (search for this): chapter 6
ight.’ But there are none to wish me back, For me no yearning prayers arise. The lips are mute and closed the eyes- My home is in the bivouac. William Gordon McCabe. Dreaming in the trenches I picture her there in the quaint old room, Where the fading fire-light starts and falls, Alone in the twilight's tender gloom With the shadows that dance on the dim-lit walls. Alone, while those faces look silently down From their antique frames in a grim repose— Slight scholarly Ralph in his Oxford gown, And stanch Sir Alan, who died for Montrose. There are gallants gay in crimson and gold, There are smiling beauties with powdered hair, But she sits there, fairer a thousand-fold, Leaning dreamily back in her low arm-chair. ‘The voices of the long ago’ The war-time home scene from Virginia gives McCabe's line a more touching pathos. The old-fashioned croquet on the lawn, where the little girl has sat down and delayed the game, is in keeping with the quaint hats and crinoline s
Bull Run, Va. (Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 6
st, either relieving another regiment or forming new outposts, according to the necessities or changes of position. The period of the poem is the fall of 1861. The battle of Bull Run had been fought in the summer, and thereafter there was very little military activity along the Potomac. McClellan was doing what was absolutely necessary to effective operations—he was drilling the raw recruits into professional soldiers. The public at large, whose impatience had brought on the disaster of Bull Run before either side was prepared for battle, was naturally exasperated. But the author—a woman—was more impressed by the fate of the lonely sentinel. 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 passe
find an honored grave and rise to a higher bliss than this world gives. ‘Their searching message from those distant hours’ With a stained and crumpled picture Of a woman's aged face; Yet there seemed to leap a wild entreaty, Young and living—tender—from the face When they flashed the lantern on it, Gilding all the purple shade, And stooped to raise him softly,— ‘That's my mother, sir,’ he said. ‘Tell her’—but he wandered, slipping Into tangled words and cries,— Something about Mac and Hooker, Something dropping through the cries About the kitten by the fire, And mother's cranberry-pies; and there The words fell, and an utter Silence brooded in the air. Just as he was drifting from them, Out into the dark, alone (Poor old mother, waiting for your message, Waiting with the kitten, all alone!), Through the hush his voice broke,—‘Tell her— Thank you, Doctor—when you can,— Tell her that I kissed her picture, And wished I'd been a better man.’ Ah, I wonder i
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