Poems (Jones)/The Night-Battle under Lookout Mountain

by Amanda Theodosia Jones

THE NIGHT-BATTLE UNDER LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN. OCTOBER 28, 29, 1863.

E silent, lute, long used at need, what time the heart seemed breaking;
And thou, my lumbering sylvan reed, forego thy wild awaking.
Such deeds have filled Columbian crypts, that, meet applause to grant them,
We want the trumpet at the lips and Gabriel's voice to chant them.

And yet so high through songful speech God's diapason rises,
Not even Gabriel's voice the reach of every stave comprises;
And we, who swell the lowest key,—albeit none revere us,—
Shall soar and sing till land and sea, aye, all their dead shall hear us!

Then wake from slumber, lute and reed! let no bravuras falter:
Oh, not to drown your moans who bleed, self-cast on Freedom's altar!
But when the shock and roar of War roll outward and diminish,
'T is meet that sylvan notes afar the lessening echoes finish.

When Hooker led his valiant men o'er rude and devious courses,
And northward turning, in the glen, encamped their weary forces,
The wary Rebel host, thereby, in upland haunts abiding,
All wolfishly did prowl and pry, from patriot-vengeance hiding.

No time did faithful soldiers waste, no chance they craved to dally,
But pitched the tent with cheery haste and fortified the valley;
Until the bleeding sun at eve sunk like a warrior wounded,
His mountain-lair dared Longstreet leave?—no answering cannon sounded.

But midnight poised her silver scale, with moon and planet freighted,
And suddenly the rising gale another tale related:
Swift battle-winds smote all the pines; through branch and root they tingled,
And down the length of martial lines a thousand volleys mingled.

On came the traitors in their might; their muskets crashed before us;
Their batteries smoked along the height, their shells did riot o'er us:
To break our lines and beat us back, or slaughter where they found us,—
Oh, all the wolves were on our track! we heard them howl around us.

Down into Geary's camp they pressed, and three to one assailed him;
Uprose his veterans from their rest, and not a warrior failed him;
But one to three they stood, to dare and face the direst sequel:
Nay! three to three—since Freedom there and God made numbers equal!

Now Hooker at the fearful noise of onset and resistance,
Cried "Forward, double-quick, my boys, dash on to their assistance!"
And into line fell Howard's corps; no storm-lashed waves of ocean
E'er leaped from shoal to beach with more precipitance of motion.

The regal hills had drawn aside their purple shades intrusive;
The dew-sown vales lay glorified with starry gleams illusive;
The air was opulent with light, dissolving and refining—
Was ever road to fame so bright? to Death so fair and shining?

Their startled pulses rush like rills when rains have made them greater!
They surge, they pour between the hills, like lava from the crater.
Now they whose whip's chivalric lash made woman's shrieks implore them,
Shall learn how freemen's weapons flash when tyrants stand before them.

Huzza! they sweep through rocky glades in serried order steady!
Their strong hands grasp their hilted blades, their hearts are blithe and ready:
Ah! all at once throughout their flank the powers of Hades enter;
And One of awful name and rank, unseen, is in their centre!

Beneath yon mountain foliage dark, strange odors cling and stifle,
And countless jets of scarlet mark the pits for man and rifle;
While such a rushing, fateful breath has blown through wood and hollow,
That but the fleet, frore wings of Death in trackless speed can follow.

"Go, take the ridge," our generals cry, "and safer passage warrant!"
Our columns rive in prompt reply like intercepted torrent;
Those frontward, Victory's wreath to snatch from brows of Freedom's haters;
These upward, loyal blades to match with blades of lurking traitors.

And nimbly to the charge they leap, with gallant Smith to lead them;
The pathless ridge is dark and steep—its tangled boughs impede them.
The wind, half conscious, through the pines some wailful strain is humming—
Where lurks the foe? his ambushed lines in silence wait their coming.

But now, the keen-edged lighting darts athwart confronting trenches;
But now, resounding thunder starts, the brooding cloud it wrenches;
Hate bursts in yells (so over-bold, they hint of Terror stronger:)
As if hell's gates had failed to hold its grappling demons longer.

Thousands, intrenched, are on the height, our clambering hundreds meeting,
With bolt on bolt to crush and blight (the Southron's brother-greeting:)
Such harvests of our men they reap, dismay—defeat are wrought them!
Nay!—but they rally! up they sweep as if a whirlwind caught them!

Up, reckless of the rifle's scope, from base to brow they speed them:
Nor clinging brambles of the slope, nor fallen trunks impede them;
Nor brutal Hatred's tig'rish yell, nor clouds that choke and blind them;
Nor breastworks lined with fires of hell, nor fiends that crouch behind them.

And lo you! where our little band the parapet encumbers,
Assaulting madly hand to hand the foe's quadrupled numbers!
With whirring balls and cleaving blows, our glorious soldiers wound them;
In headlong, driving strife they close; they harass, they astound them.

Never such wild hurras before from distance pealed to distance!
From rifle-pits the lurkers pour in terrified desistance.
Down the rough steep they leap, they creep, as murderers dumb they hide them,
And like avenging spirits sweep our men behind—beside them.

The ridge is ours! but battle-gales are loudly hurtling yonder:
Dash on, brave victors, down the dales! stay not to rest or ponder!
Ten thousand Rebels, left and right, there closer, closer plant them;
But Geary's ranks are grand in fight, and Howard's—who shall daunt them?

Press on, press on, rebellious horde! meet death and dark disasters!
The drops that stain a Northman's sword free slaves from scourging masters.
Press on, press on! bring all your guns—load well and aim discreetly:
Yet know One sides with Freedom's sons whose judgments follow fleetly.

Line crowding line, rank urging rank, steel pressed to hearts unshielded:
An instant's hush from flank to flank—and God his bolt has wielded!
A subtle thrill, a blanching dread—skies bowed, earth quaking under—
And all the traitorous files are shred, are rent, are hewn asunder!

Ah, Longstreet left his lair at night, no servile cohorts lacking;
But by their gore his backward flight the scout, at morn, was tracking.
While Northern hands were digging graves to hide his fallen numbers,
Their widows weep—though not their slaves: God grant them peaceful slumbers!

Be silent, echoing sylvan reed! for Death's wild bell is knelling,
And hearts of mourners break and bleed in many a loyal dwelling:
But when War's dread apocalypse has hushed its sevenfold thunder,
Such light will flood Columbia's crypts that Gabriel's self must wonder.