Shiloh
by Adelia Wall Gilbert
Most queenly of rivers, the Tennessee sweeps
By low, sunny banks where her smooth water keeps,
And the brown thrush's call to its mate soft and low
Goes echoing over the silvery flow;
By fields, where the daisies peep out from the grass
And kiss the gay sunbeams as, laughing, they pass
To play on the water a rainbow of light,
That breaks into jewels, all sparkling and bright,
To rest on her majesty's robe of dull brown,
And laughingly fleck themselves over the ground.
All nature was blooming in sunshine and shower
Of sweet April days, and dreamed not the dark hour
Of Shiloh approaching; but dark clouds of war
Were throwing their shadows anear and afar,
And soon the deep silence of woodland and glen
Was broken by tread of an army of men.
They came from the lowland, they came from the hill,
They came by the river, so peaceful and still,
Till her bosom was beaten by paddle and wheel
And her jewels were changed into iron and steel.
Then glow of the camp fires was seen in the night,
That lit up a newly built city of white;
There were neighing of steeds, the sentry's quick call,
The clatter and rattle of musket and ball.
Under the white tents were weary men sleeping;
Some round the camp fire their vigils were keeping,
Dreaming of deeds of the coming to-morrow,
Speaking of loved ones in low tones of sorrow.
For well they all knew of the time drawing nigh
When each must endeavor to conquer or die.
Two armies had gathered, with valor to fight
For North or for South, as they deemed it aright;
So when the clear bugle sent forth the alarms
They readily sprang to their saddles and arms,
And to beating of drum and screaming of fife
They went forth to battle, for death or for life.
With hearts full of courage they eagerly go
To meet on the field an American foe;
For all were the sons of one dear motherland,
And brother met brother with death in his hand.
With glitter of cold, cruel arms in the sun
The heartrending battle of Shiloh begun;
With thunder of hoof beats the cavalry dashed,
While sabers were gleaming and bayonets flashed;
The gunboats were hurling their death-dealing shells.
And woodlands were ringing with Southerners' yells;
Fair scenes that were lately so lovely and bright
Were changed into darkness - the darkness of night;
The air all about them grew shadowed and gray,
Where smoke clouds were dimming the pale face of day.
Here, forward they pressed with victorious shout;
There, backward they reeled mid carnage and rout;
A great chieftain had fallen, was dying, but then
He cheered with his last breath his faltering men,
As, breasting the storm, under terrible rain
Of bullets, they struggled advantage to gain.
Where fighting was thickest they wavered and fell,
And brave hearts ceased throbbing at bursting of shell;
At touch of the Minie ball men were laid low
In the dust, as they fell with face to the foe.
At last there was silence on river and shore,
They had sounded "Cease Firing." The battle was O'er.
Dark forms were strewn thickly all over the field,
Whose hearts were now still and whose cold lips were sealed;
And streams crept slowly through torn, trampled grass
That they tinged such a horrible red, alas!
As they flowed from the mangled breasts of the gray
To mingle with those where the bluecoats lay,
For many a valorous Northman lay dead,
And freely the chivalrous Southerners bled.
They fell as they fought, for the old stripes and stars;
And sunk where they battled, for banner of bars.
Ah! many had only the pitying light
Of the moon's pale face on their last great fight,
And the God of battles only heard the faint moan
From the paling lips as they died all alone.
Then the widow's wail was heard in the land.
While tears fell fast from a young orphan band;
Bright hearthstones were darkened and hearts bowed low
As Northland and Southland bent under the blow.
Once thousands had met where the Tennessee rolls,
And her banks were crowded with living souls.
They are crowded still, but the forms are now dust,
And the emblems of war are covered with rust.
Where white stones are gleaming on Mother Earth's breast
Her sons and heroes are lying at rest.
There calmly they slumber, a great nation's pride,
With that fair "drummer boy" who prayed as he died.
O Shiloh! sad Shiloh! the gray and the blue
Gave life for their country; what more could they do?
Over there in the green wood deep trenches were made,
And in them the sons of the sunny South laid.
No stones mark the head place, no numbers are there,
To tell us the story of who or of where
They were lost with the cause they defended so well,
And rest in the silence of woodland and dell;
But God knows them each one, and each as he lies,
Can call them by name when he bids them arise
To meet on the last field a brotherhood band,
Where all will await for one Master's command.
Again, in sweet April days, flowers are springing
All through the green wood where light birds are winging
Their way through the branches, and echoes increase
As songs from their dainty throats tell us of peace;
Again on the hill sound the voices of men,
While light forms are flitting by river and glen;
Fresh laurels are gathered for each hallowed grave,
And tenderly placed on the hearts of the brave,
Who shall waken one day, on that sun-kissed shore,
To dwell in the vale of sweet peace evermore.
