105. Ballad of Shiloh.1
An army of the loyal North,An army of the rebel South,
In gathering squadrons hastening forth,
To face the cannon's blazing mouth.
One comes from recent battle-fields,
And forts along the river-side;
The laurel of a conqueror wields--
Decking the banner of its pride!
The other, maddened by defeats
And sore disasters met in flight,
With sternest desperation greets
The coming of its foe to fight.
The white tents of the one along
The river's winding valley gleam,
Within which rings full many a song,
And brightens many a home-lit dream!
But by its victories grown bold,
And confident of giant power,
It fails its wonted guard to hold,
To meet the fortunes of the hour.
Looks far too meanly on its foe,
Believing it will never dare
To leave its stronghold till a blow
Most crushing drives it to despair.
A wild and foolish dream, alas!
More daring is its rebel foe;
Before them lies a narrow pass,
Beyond is joy or bitter woe.
Beyond the real of their dreams,
Or worse, the blight of hope and life;
The hope, the blight so mighty seems,
It dares begin the bloody strife!
So hopefully it presses on
With cautious step and watchful eye,
To bid invading hosts begone,
With furious onset by and by.
Near, nearer still its foe it comes;
It rests at night so very near,
The roll-beat of the hostile drums
Distinctly greets its wary ear.
The loyal-hearted seek repose,
And find their sleep as sweet and calm,
As if there were no lurking foes
Who wished or cared to do them harm!
The hours by moments fly apace,
The midnight comes, the midnight goes,
The stars look down with smiling face,
To deepen, sweeten their repose.
And soon the morning tints the hills,
The Sabbath morning, still and clear,
Whose calm and holy presence fills
The heart with triumph over fear.
The unsuspecting brave ones wake,
To wing the hours with song and prayer;
But hark! what sounds are those that break
The stillness of the morning air?
The sound has reached their ears before;
Full well its meaning know the band;
It is the cannon's herald roar,
Proclaiming foes, stern foes at hand!
Then there is hurry to and fro,
The long roll sounds from camp to camp
Excited chieftains come and go,
Earth trembles with the heavy tramp.
One from his tent half-girded flies,
One leaves his morning's meal half-done;
All rush to arms in wild surprise,
Welcomed by many a hostile gun.
The hosts form into battle-line,
To stay the tempest coming nigh;
Above their gleaming colors shine,
Below their cannon find reply!
Alas! how many hearts so warm,
So buoyant, full of summer life,
Shall fall before the fiery storm,
Shall perish in the fearful strife!
But hot and hotter grows the fire,
And thicker falls the iron hail;
The foe with resolute desire
Would gladly make the stoutest quail.
A hundred blazing cannon roar
Their stern defiance to the sky,
A hundred blazing cannon more
As loudly, sternly make reply.
And thus all through that Sabbath-day
The battle rages fierce and hot;
The conflict gives no time to pray,
No time for calm and holy thought.
The loyal brave are sorely pressed,
Far, far outnumbered by their foe;
They can but slowly yield at best,
Fighting most fiercely as they go.
Their camp is left — the river near;
Must they be forced, alas! to cross?
The friendly boats dispel their fear,
And deal to foes a heavy loss.
And night gives aid with sheltering wing,
Suspends awhile the deadly fray;
Gives rebels time their joys to sing--
Their prospects for the coming day.
Gives freemen time for troubled rest,
To mourn the fortunes of the field,
Grow strong anew the storm to breast,
Pray God to be their strength and shield.
God hears their prayer, deliverance sends,
Bright hopes to gild the coming day,
Warm greetings with a host of friends,
Ready to join the bloody fray.
[94] And when the morning tints the sky
With deepening blushes fringed with gold,
To meet their foe the brave ones fly,
Determined still to win and hold.
That day again the battle's rage
Is terrible as death can be;
Eight score of thousands there engage
In closest fight for victory.
Heaven favors now the loyal host,
And crowns them with the joy they crave,
They firmly stand at duty's post,
And rout their foes, though strong and brave!
Night coming leaves with them the field;
Gone foes, gone doubts, gone wildest fears;
The victor's palm again they wield,
Though at the price of blood and tears.
The battle-ground is piled with slain;
Ah! thousands sleep to wake no more,
And thousands still feel keenest pain
From mangled bodies drenched in gore!
Yet such the price of liberty,
A nation's dearest, bloodiest prize;
But blessed is it to be free,
And love will make the sacrifice.
Exeter, N. H.
