Memories before the Internet

A different time past Speeches, poetry and songs for every occasion were spoken, written or sung during and after the Civil War. This different time past treasured sentiments in words. 600,000 Americans died; in 1910, 84 cemeteries in 28 states honored the fallen. Negro spirituals, camp songs, about “tenting on the old campground”, feelings for the “girl I left behind me,” and popular commemoratives about “when this cruel war is over” were heard across this country preceding, of course, radio, TV, cell phones and the Internet. Treasured words about “the blossoms blooming for all,” “break not his sweet repose,” “Over their graves rang once the bugle’s call,” “where defeated valor lies,” about “The searching shrapnel and the crashing ball,” And what a Grand Review when the fighting was over! People like John Burns at Gettysburg, and poems ‘in Memoriam” to numerous brave soldiers like the young, “Great Cannoneer, Major John Pelham, commanding the Horse Artillery, who fell mortally wounded with the “battle-cry on his lips and the light of victory beaming from his eye.” Too romantic? To ideal? Maybe, but unfortunately all too real, too sad. Julia Ward Howe penned the “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” because no one wanted to forget “the picket shot,” the “men dreaming in the trenches,” or Christmas night of ’62. No special General was forgotten in poetry or prose (though great poets who also died in battle). Thomas Jonathan Jackson ( Stonewall) and Albert Sydney Johnston to name but two. How did we Americans write back then? TO THE SOUTH O subtle, musky, slumberous clime! O swart, hot land of pine and palm, Of fig, peach, guava, orange, lime, And terebinth and tropic balm! Land where our Washington was born, When truth in hearts of gold was worn; Mother of Marion, Moultrie, Lee, Widow of fallen chivalry! No longer sadly look behind, But turn and face the morning wind, And feel sweet comfort in the thought; ‘With each fierce battle’s sacrifice I sold the wrong at awful price, And bought the good;’ but knew it not.’ James Maurice Thompson BROTHER JONATHAN’S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE She has gone,- she has left us in passion and pride,- Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side! She has torn her own star from our firmament’s glow, And turned on his brother the face of a foe! They may fight till buzzards are gorged with their spoil,- Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil, Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their caves, And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves: In vain is the strife! … Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky; Man breaks not the medal when God cuts the die!... Go, then, our rash sister! Afar and aloof,- Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof; But when your heart aches and your feet have grown sore, Remember the pathway that leads t our door! Oliver Wendell Holmes SUCH IS THE DEATH THE SOLDIER DIES Such is the death the soldier dies; He falls,- the column speeds away; Upon the dabbled grass he lies, His brave heart following, still, the fray. Robert Burns Wilson THE DYING WORDS OF STONEWALL JACKSON The stars of Night contain the glittering Day And rain his glory down with sweeter grace Upon the dark World’s grand, enchanted face- All loth to turn away. And so the Day about to yield his breath, Utters the stars unto the listening Night,. To stand for burning fare-thee-wells of light Said on the verge of death. O hero-life that lit us like the sun! O hero-words that glittered like the stars And stood and shone above the gloomy wars When the hero-life was done!.... Sidney Lanier Walt Whitman for Abraham Lincoln… O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered 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. … And James Russell Lowell ODE TO LINCOLN Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, Whom late the Nation he had led, With ashes on her head, Wept with the passion of an angry grief: Forgive me, if from present things I turn To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn. Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote: … “Be proud! For she is saved, and all have helped to save her! She that lifts up the manhood of the poor, She of the open soul and open door, With room about her hearth for all mankind! The fire is dreadful in her eyes no more; From her bold front the helm, she doth unbind, Sends all her handmaid armies back to spin, And bids her navies, that so lately hurled Their crashing battle, hold their thunders in, Swimming like birds of calm along the unharmful shore. No challenge sends she to the elder world, ] That looked askance and hated: a light scorn Plays o’er her mouth, as round her mighty knees She calls her children back, and waits the morn Of nobler day, enthroned between her subject seas.” So much was written about America ( a great land) and the binding up of wounds from the Civil War