Poetry

To the OshkoshVolunteers
by a Lady of Oshkosh 1861

Hands were shaken, tears were dropping Fast from eyes unused to weep;
Hearts were tried and nearly broken; Words were naught for grief so deep.

Sobs were welling from each bosom of the friends they left behind;
Prayers were breathed for their protection, To their God they were consigned.

Still their will remained unshaken, Friends and home were given up;
For their Country and for Freedom They would drain the bitter cup.

God will bless them for their manhood, Bless them for the sacrifice;
Prayers with blessings and petitions Morn and evening o'er will rise.

We have missed them, sadly missed them, For their presence still we yearn;
And our prayer ascendeth nightly For each dear one's safe return.

The Volunteer

"At dawn," he said, "I bid them all farewell,
To go where bugles call and rifles gleam."
And with the restless thought asleep he fell,
And glided into dream.

A great hot plain from sea to mountain spread,-
Through it a level river slowly drawn.
He moved with a vast crowd, and at its head
Streamed banners like the dawn.

There came a blinding flash, a deafening roar,
And dissonant cries of triumph and dismay;
Blood trickled down the river's reedy shore,
And with the dead he lay.

The morn broke in upon his solemn dream;
And still, with steady pulse and deepening eye,
"Where bugles call," he said, "and rifles gleam,
I follow though I die!"

Wise youth! By few is glory's wreath attained;
But death, late or soon awaiteth all.
To fight in Freedom's cause is something gained,-
And nothing lost, to fall.

Atlantic Monthly, May, 1862

The Wisconsin Volunteer
By John W. Byron
Hurrah for the brave volunteer! For no soldier of fortune is he:
Amid danger still scorning all fear, He has arm's for the Land of the Free!

It is not for the pride of fame That he braves the red battle's wild breath:
No! his COUNTRY'S own weal is his aim, And for this he hurrahs amid death!

The sweet dear one he loves, for a while May his absence deplore with a tear;
But, oh, when he returns, with a smile She will welcome her brave Volunteer!

The Appleton Crescent, 5 May 1861
Thanks to Mark Karweick

Voyage of the Good Ship Union
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

'T is midnight; through my troubled dream
Loud wails the tempest's cry;
Before the gale, with tattered sail,
A ship goes plunging by.
What name? Where bound?- The rocks around
Repeat the loud halloo.
-The good ship Union, southward bound;
God help her and her crew!

And is the old flag flying still
That o'er your fathers flew,
With bands of white and rosy light,
And fields of starry blue?
-Ay! look aloft! its folds full oft
Have braved the roaring blast,
And still shall fly when from the sky
This black typhoon has past!

Speak, pilot of the storm-tost bark!
May I thy peril share?
-O landsman, these are fearful seas
The brave alone shall dare!
-Nay ruler of the rebel deep,
What matters wind or wave?
The rocks that wreck your reeling deck
Will leave me naught to save!

O landsman, art though false or true?
What sign hast though to show?
-The crimson stains from loyal veins
That hold my heart-blood's flow!
-Enough! what more shall honor claim?
I know the sacred sign;
Above thy head our flag shall spread,
Our ocean path to thine!

The bark sails on; the Pilgrim's Cape
Lies low along her lee,
Whose headland crooks its anchor flukes
To lock the shore and sea.
No treason here! it cost too dear
To win this barren realm!
And true and free the hands must be
To hold the whaler's helm!

Still on! Manhattan's narrowing bay
No Rebel cruiser scars;
Her waters feel no pirates keel
That flaunts the fallen stars!
-But watch the light on yonder height,-
Ay, pilot have a care!
Some lingering cloud in mists may shroud
The capes of Delaware!

Say, pilot, what this fort may be,
Whose sentinels look down
From moated walls that show the sea
Their deep embrasures' frown?
The Rebel host claims all the coast,
But these are friends, we know
Whose footprints spoil the "sacred soil,"
And this is? - Fort Monroe!

The breakers roar, - how bears the shore?
- The traitorous wreckers' hands
Have quenched the blaze that poured its rays
Along the Hatteras sands.
- Ha! say not so! I see its glow!
Again the shoals display
The beacon light that shines by night,
The Union Stars by day!

The good ship flies to milder skies,
The wave more gently flows,
The softening breeze wafts o'er the seas
The breath of Beaufort's rose.
What fold is this the sweet winds kiss,
Fair striped and many starred,
Whose shadow palls these orphaned walls,
The twins of Beauregard?

What! Heard you not Port Royal's doom?
How the black war-ships came
And turned the Beaufort roses' bloom
To redder wreaths of flame?
How from Rebellions broken reed
We saw his emblem fall,
As soon his cursed poison-weed
Shall drop from Sumter's wall?

On! On! Pulaski's iron hail
Falls harmless from Tybee!
Her topsails feel the freshening gale,
She strikes the open sea;
She rounds the point, she threads the keys
That guard the Land of Flowers,
And rides at last where firm and fast
Her own Gibralter towers.

The good ship Union's voyage is o'er,
At anchor safe she swings,
And loud and clear with cheer on cheer

Her joyous welcome rings:
Hurrah! Hurrah! it shakes the wave,
It thunders on the shore, -
One flag, one land, one heart, one hand,
One Nation, evermore!

Atlantic Monthly, March 1862

Walt Whitman (1819-1892) In 1862 Whitman, 43 at the time, went looking for his brother, George, who was serving in the Union army and was missing after the battle of Fredericksburg. This experience, taking him to many of the hospitals in the Washington area. The conditions so affected him he moved from Long Island to Washington and took a Civil Service position and worked with the Christian Commission, making 600 hospital visits..He considered it "the greatest privilege and satisfaction...and the most profound lesson of my life." It changed his work and perspective. His poems of the war were published in 1865 as "Drum Taps" and in 1867 were made part of "Leaves of Grass.

Oh Captain! My Captain!

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd
And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,
I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.

O powerful western fallen star!
O shades of night -- O moody, tearful night!
O great star disappear'd -- O the black murk that hides the star!
O cruel hands that hold me powerless -- O helpless soul of me!
O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul.

In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash'd palings,
Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,
With every leaf a miracle -- and from this bush in the dooryard,
With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig with its flower I break.

In the swamp in secluded recesses,
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

Solitary the thrush,
The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
Sings by himself a song.

Song of the bleeding throat,
Death's outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know,
If thou wast not granted to sing thou would'st surely die.)

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,
Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray debris,
Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass,
Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen,
Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards,
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
Night and day journeys a coffin.

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,
Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land,
With the pomp of the inloop'd flags with the cities draped in black,
With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veil'd women standing,
With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night,
With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads,
With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,
With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn,
With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour'd around the coffin,
The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs -- where amid these you journey,
With the tolling tolling bells' perpetual clang,
Here, coffin that slowly passes,
I give you my sprig of lilac.

(Nor for you, for one alone,
Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring,
For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you O sane and sacred death.

All over bouquets of roses,
O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies,
But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,
Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes,
With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,
For you and the coffins all of you O death.)

O western orb sailing the heaven,
Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walk'd,
As I walk'd in silence the transparent shadowy night,
As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after night,
As you droop'd from the sky low down as if to my side, (while the other stars all look'd on,)
As we wander'd together the solemn night, (for something I know not what kept me from sleep,)
As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full you were of woe,
As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cool transparent night,
As I watch'd where you pass'd and was lost in the netherward black of the night,
As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you sad orb,
Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.

Sing on there in the swamp
O singer bashful and tender, I hear your notes, I hear your call,
I hear, I come presently, I understand you,
But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detain'd me,
The star my departing comrade holds and detains me.
O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?
And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?
And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love?

Sea-winds blown from east and west,
Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till there on the prairies meeting,
These and with these and the breath of my chant,
I'll perfume the grave of him I love.

O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?
And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,
To adorn the burial-house of him I love?

Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes,
With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,
With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air,
With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific,
In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there,
With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows,
And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,
And all the scenes of life and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.

Lo, body and soul -- this land,
My own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships,
The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light, Ohio's shores and flashing Missouri,
And ever the far-spreading prairies cover'd with grass and corn.

Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty,
The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes,
The gentle soft-born measureless light,
The miracle spreading bathing all, the fulfill'd noon,
The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars,
Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.

Sing on, sing on you gray-brown bird,
Sing from the swamps, the recesses, pour your chant from the bushes,
Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.

Sing on dearest brother, warble your reedy song,
Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.

O liquid and free and tender!
O wild and loose to my soul -- O wondrous singer!
You only I hear -- yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart,)
Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me.

Now while I sat in the day and look'd forth,
In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and the farmers preparing their crops,
In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and forests,
In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb'd winds and the storms,)
Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women,
The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they sail'd,
And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor,
And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages,
And the streets how their throbbings throbb'd, and the cities pent -- lo, then and there,
Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the rest,
Appear'd the cloud, appear'd the long black trail,
And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.

Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,
And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,
And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions,
I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not,
Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness,
To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still.

And the singer so shy to the rest receiv'd me,
The gray-brown bird I know receiv'd us comrades three,
And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.

From deep secluded recesses,
From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still,
Came the carol of the bird.

And the charm of the carol rapt me,
As I held as if by their hands my comrades in the night,
And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.

Come lovely and soothing death,
Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
Sooner or later delicate death.

Prais'd be the fathomless universe,
For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,
And for love, sweet love -- but praise! praise! praise!
For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.

Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet,
Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?
Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,
I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.

Approach strong deliveress,
When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead,
Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,
Laved in the flood of thy bliss O death.

From me to thee glad serenades,
Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee,
And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting,
And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.

The night in silence under many a star,
The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know,
And the soul turning to thee O vast and well-veil'd death,
And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.

Over the tree-tops I float thee a song,
Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide,
Over the dense-pack'd cities all and the teeming wharves and ways,
I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O death.

To the tally of my soul,
Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,
With pure deliberate notes spreading filling the night.

Loud in the pines and cedars dim,
Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp-perfume,
And I with my comrades there in the night.

While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,
As to long panoramas of visions.

And I saw askant the armies,
I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags,
Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc'd with missiles I saw them,
And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody,
And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,)
And the staffs all splinter'd and broken.

I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,
And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them,
I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war,
But I saw they were not as was thought,
They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer'd not,
The living remain'd and suffer'd, the mother suffer'd,
And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffer'd,
And the armies that remain'd suffer'd.

Passing the visions, passing the night,
Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands,
Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul,
Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet varying ever-altering song,
As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,
Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy,
Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven,
As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,
Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves,
I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring.

I cease from my song for thee,
From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee,
O comrade lustrous with silver face in the night.

Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night,
The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird,
And the tallying chant, the echo arous'd in my soul,
With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe,
With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird,
Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the dead I loved so well,
For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands -- and this for his dear sake,
Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul,
There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.

(written at the death of Lincoln)

Beat! Beat! Drums

Beat! beat! drums! - blow! bugles! blow
Through the windows -- through doors -- burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation,
Into the school where the scholar is studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet -- no happiness must he have now with his bride,
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain,
So fierce you whirr and pound you drums -- so shrill you bugles blow.

Beat! beat! drums! -- blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities -- over the rumble of wheels in the streets;
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds,
No bargainers' bargains by day -- no brokers or speculators -- would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums -- you bugles wilder blow.

Beat! beat! drums! -- blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley -- stop for no expostulation,
Mind not the timid -- mind not the weeper or prayer,
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man,
Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties,
Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump O terrible drums -- so loud you bugles blow.

Land of the Free

All hail to the flag of the land of the free,
O, where is the heart that's not beating for thee,
Or the hand that's reluctant to strike for any fame,
Till the foe turns his back and retires in shame,
The terror of tyrants, the hope of the slave,
The foul serpent flag and the traitor must flee
From the bright beaming Stars of the land of the free.

Our proud eagle's spurned by traitors and knaves,
Who boast that they can conquer and make us their slaves,
The legions of freedom shall rise in their might,
And the foes of our eagle must scatter in flight.
Ye sons of the North-land whose fathers have shed
Their blood for the flag of the blue, white and red;
The shades of your fathers now call unto thee
To strike for the flag of the land of the free.

The Goddess of Liberty shouts to the brave,
And points to the land of the chain and the Slave
Where the children of Africa in bondage and tears,
Must toil 'til the bright sun of Freedom appears.
''Tis the glory of freemen to shield the oppressed,
It brightens the halo round Liberty's crest;
March forward bold freemen, their hope rests on thee,
When you strike for the flag of the land of the free.

Shall the bright sun of Liberty set in the West,
And the emblems of Freedom be torn from our crest,
And the demon of Slavery stalk o'er the land
With bloodhounds and chains, and lash, and the brand!
Ah! No, see the host's of the North take the field,
To the minion's of slavery they never will yield,
The flag of the serpent and traitor must flee
From the time-honored flag of the land of the free.

From wood-lands and prairies, from hamlets afar,
The sons of the North rushes on to the war,
From hill tops and valley, hark! hear the loud cry,
For the Star Spangled Banner we'll conquer or die,
For rights that are sacred, we welcome the fight.
We fear not the foe, 'tho he boasts of his rights,
The palmetto banner and traitor must flee
From the bright beaming stars of the land of the free.

Dear, dear to our hearts are the youth of our land
Who shield their loved country with heart and with hand,
O, Bless'd be the sons of the land of the brave.
Who go forth to conquer, or sink in the grave.
O, God of our fathers, in thee is our trust,
Go with them to battle, their cause is just,
They fight not alone when their trust is in thee,
O, smile on the sons of the land of the free.

Hark! Liberty shrieks the brave Ellsworth has fell,
And a nation in tears hears the sound of his knell,
He has torn from its staff the foul flag of the foe
And felt the assassins base treacherous blow,
Woe, woe, to the traitors, their doom must be nigh,
The blood of the Hero for vengeance doth cry,
And the flag of Columbia in mourning doth wave,
O'er the tomb of her Ellsworth, the daring Zouave.

The war-drum is rolling, the shrill bugle sounds.
The cannon is roaring, its thunder resounds,
With cheers for our banner, and Death for its foe,
From the land of the brave to the battle we go,
Our hands they are willing, our hearts they are true
To the homes of our fathers, and lov'd ones adieu,
When the proud foe is conquered, we hasted to thee,
With the Rebel's flag under the land of the free.

by Robert D. Rickaby, father of 4 sons in
5th. 16th.,14th., and the 21st. Wisconsin Infantry
and father-in-law to 3 in Co. E, 14th WI.
From the Manitowoc Weekly Tribune on Wed, June 19, 1861

The Wisconsin Boys
in the Snow of Virginia

The white flakes of the fast falling snow fill the air, From the earth to the gray, dusky clouds overhead, And the fields of Virginia once gloomy and bare,
With a pure spotless carpet of White are o'erspread.

"Ho, hurrah for the fast-falling, beautiful snow" In clear accents that ring like a shrill sounding horn, Cry the boys from the land where the clear waters flow,
And the oaks and the pines shake their heads in the storm.

"Ho, for the fast-falling, beautiful snow," come ye boys of Wisconsin, turn our, every one, To the shivering sons of the south we will show That the Northmen enjoy both the snow-storm and Sun

"We are school-boys again and we'll close up the day With the game in which school-boys all join with high glee; the game has commenced, and they sportively throw The hard-packed, white snow-ball at each other, until Each soldier-boy seems but a hummock of snow, From the fast-bursting balls that the atmosphere fill.

"Tis a miniature battle, with charge-rally-rout;; like grape shot the snow-balls fly swift thro' the air." I can hear the loud laugh and triumphant shout,
But no groan from the wounded, no wail of despair.

To this rare sport the snow-covered hills are awake, For they never before such a frolic have seen; And their huge sides with laughter excessive, they shake,
As the pines, to a storm, shake their garments of green.

O, the beautiful snow, it reminds one of home, Of my home 'mong the hills of the old Badger State; I live over the days that forever have flown,
With dear friends that yet long may my coming await.

LINES

Affectionately inscribed to the family of Mark Pease.

"Mourn for the mourners: not for the dead."

I know of words of soothing, I may speak, For grief like yours,
will only be too weak;
Still, from a heart that much of grief has learned, I trust this sympathy will not be spurned. Full well I know, how by these broken ties, The heart is wounded till it almost dies; And how it vainly cries, with yearning pain, For love that is not ours on earth again.

O, He alone, who filled, and gave the cup, Can heal the
bruised heart, and raise it up;
And through his love, and tenderness, and care, May you find
strength, this heavy cross to bear.
O, mourning mother, weeping for your son, Of all the group,
most sorely stricken one!

Your boy is knowing now the sweetest rest, That has been
his since lying on your breast.
His baby eyes were closed, and hushed his cry, By the sweet
soothing of your lullaby.
But far too sacred are your love and woe, For any but a
mother's heart to know.

And mourning father! He who's hand hath dealt This blow,
your dark and bitter grief has fell, -
His own beloved son in anguish died! He will be near to love,
and bless, and guide.

'Brother!' O, at the sound of that sweet word, Emotions,
new and strange, my heart has stirred.
A sister's holy love and trust I know, Bright guiding stars of heaven, here below,
O, often does my saddened heart rejoice, At the sweet
music of a brother's voice.

And by this strong, deep love, I know how crushed My heart would be, my heart would be were those dear voices hushed. And O, for
you, my stricken friends, for you
Who love your brother, with a love as true, My heart is
aching with a restless pain;
My tears are falling like the falling rain. O, that I could
some word of comfort say,
To cast one gleam of light upon your way!

Near the grave where one, a brother, slept, The loving, pitying
Jesus stood, and wept.
Is He not now as strong, to love, and save, As when he
wept beside that brother's grave?
As when those sisters, writhing in their pain, Heard this, "Thy
brother yet shall rise again"
Yes, Jesus will be with you, ever near, To mark each struggling
sigh, and falling tear.
Oh, trust Him! He will lead you through this night, To his own
home and His own blessed light.
And may you all by suffering sanctified, Meet where all perfect
peace and love abide!

Kenosha, Sept. 25, 1862 F. A. B.
From the Kenosha Telegraph, Oct. 3, 1862

Private Marcus A. Pease, Company F, 1st Wisconsin Cavalry,
Died of Disease, Helena, Ark., Aug. 23, 1862

The Legend of Easter Eggs
"Dearest Papa! says my boy to me,
As he merrily climbs on his mother's knee,
"Why are those eggs that you see me hold.
Colored so finely with blue and gold?
And what is the wonderful bird that lays
such beautiful eggs on Easter days?

You have heard my boy of the man who died
Crowned with keen thorns and crucified;
And Joseph the wealthy, whom god reward
Cared for the corpse of his martyed Lord
and piously tombed it within the rock,
and closed the gate with a mighty block.

Now close by the tomb a fair tree grew
With pendulous leaves and blossoms blue;
And deep in the green tree's shadowy breast
A beautiful singing bird sat in her nest
Which was bordered with roses like malachite
And held four eggs of an ivory white.

Now when the bird from its dim recess
Beheld the Lord in his burial dress
And looked on the heavenly face so pale
And the dear feet pierced with the cruel nail
Her heart nigh broke with a sudden pang
And out of the depth of her grief she sang.

All night long till the morn was up
She sat and sang in her moss-wreathed cup
A song of sorrow as wild and shrill
As the homeless wind when it roams the hill
So full of tears so loud and long
That the grief of the world seemed tuned to song

But soon there came through the weeping night
A glimmering angel clothed in white;
And he rolled the stone from the tomb away
Where the Lord of Heaven and Earth he lay
And the Christ arose from the cavern's gloom
And in living lustre came from the tomb

Now the bird that sat in the heart of the tree
Beheld the celestial mystery
And its heart was filled with a sweet delight
And it poured a song on the throbbing night
Notes climbing notes till higher, higher,
They shot to heaven like sparks of fire

When the glittering white-robed angel heard
The sorrowing song of the grieving bird
And heard the following chant of mirth
That hailed Christ risen again on earth
He said "Sweet bird be forever blest
Thyself, thy eggs and thy moss-wreathed nest

And ever, my child, since that blessed night
When death bowed down to the Lord of light
The eggs of that sweet bird changed their hue
And burn with red, and gold and blue
Reminding mankind in their simple way
Of the holy marvel of Easter day.

April 11,1863, Madison, Wis

From: Erin Roth
Iron Brigade Poem
I found this on a site on the net. No known date.

The March of the Iron Brigade
by John Bryson

See, where the morning's beam
Purples the Cedar stream,
Long lines of bayonets gleam,
Fiercely and bright arrayed.
Tramp, tramp, with step so true,
As if on grand review,
It is the march, I trow,
Of the Iron Brigade.

Bristoe and Catlett's glen
All are alive with men,
Cheery and blithe as when
Forming on dress parade;
Onward, thro' wood and field,
Hearts all with courage steel'd
The old Iron Brigade.

Tramp, tramp, with weary feet,
Thro' rivers wide and deep,
o'er pathways rough and steep,
Breastwork and barricade;
Covering ten leagues and more,
To Rappahannock's shore,
Men never marched before
Like the Iron Brigade.

Grand was the martial sight,
In the glad morning's light,
When from old Falmouth's height.
Footmen and Cavalcade,
'Mid bridges burning high,
Burnishing all the sky,
March'd with light step and spry,
The old Iron Brigade.

Cheer upon cheer arise,
Up thro' the vaulted skies,
While the proud rebel flies,
Baffled and sore dismay'd,
Long will the poets tell,
While the glad numbers swell,
All the deeds that befell
The old Iron Brigade.