Finding Poetry in Tragedy

I've long been fascinated by the American Civil War. To me, it encompasses a time when our country withstood it's most ultimate test. In true American fashion, we've triumphed, persevered, and found a way to move forward and live harmoniously.

Recently I came across a book entitled Civil War Poetry. It seems many writers during that time were pretty long winded, as many of the Poems go on for pages. What I like about this book in particular is that it includes works by Northern and Southern poets, so it's not a one-sided collection.

For this weeks post, I'm going to share a few of these poems that I especially like.

Ever since reading Leaves of Grass, I've been a big fan of Walt Whitman. He served as a nurse during the Civil War, so truly his words were inspired by what he'd seen.

O Captain! My Captain!

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

The ship has weathered every rack, the prize sought we 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 the 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 the bouquets and ribboned wreaths- for you

the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass their eager faces turning;

Here captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck

You've fallen cold and dead.

My captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has not pulse nor will,

The ship is anchored safe and sound, it's voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult, O shores, and ring O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

I'd like to note also that Whitman eulogized Abraham Lincoln in When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd after his assassination. This is a great and powerful tribute to our 16th President.


Francis Miles Finch is an author I'm not terribly familiar with, but after reading this touching poem honoring both the Union and Confederate solders, I feel I needed to include his work here. He wasn't a writer by profession, in fact he wasn't even published until two years after his death in 1907. It's worth noting that early in Ulysses Grant's first Presidential term (circa 1870), FMF was appointed collector of internal revenue for the Twenty-sixth District, New York.


The Blue and the Gray


By the flow of the inland river,
Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep are the ranks of the dead:

Under the sod and dew,
Waiting the judgement-day;
Under the one, the Blue,
Under the other, the Gray

These in the robings of glory,
Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgement-day
Under the laurel, the Blue,
Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours
The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers
Alike for the friend and the foe;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgement-day;
Under the roses, the Blue,
Under the lilies, the Gray.

So with an equal splendor,
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all:

Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgement-day;
Broidered with gold, the Blue,
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
the cooling drip of the rain:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgement-day,
Wet with the rain, the Blue
Wet with the rain, the Gray

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
The generous deed was done,
In the storm of the years that are fading
No braver battle was one:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgement-day:
Under the blossoms, the Blue,
Under the garlands, the Gray

No more shall the war cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red:
They banish our anger forever
When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgement-day,
Love and tears for the Blue,
Tears and love for the Gray.



I have this last poem written by Oliver Wendell Holmes in a couple different collections of poetry. I feel as if he's right on point, asking the South "why?", but offering to make peace regardless of the outcome of the war.

During his senior year of college, at the outset of the Civil War, Holmes enlisted in the fourth battalion, Massachusetts militia, and then received a commission as first lieutenant in the Twentieth Regiment of Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry. He saw much action, from the Peninsula Campaign to the Wilderness, suffering wounds at the Battle of Ball's Bluff, Antietam, and Fredericksburg. He is also said to have shouted at Lincoln during the Battle of Fort Stevens, saying "Get down, you fool!" when Lincoln stood, making him a susceptible target. He was mustered out in 1864 as a brevet Lieutenant Colonel after his three-year enlistment ended. After his death two uniforms were discovered in his closet with a note attached to them reading, "These uniforms were worn by me in the Civil War and the stains upon them are my blood."

Personally, I think Mr. Holmes was a cutie!

Brother Jonathon'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 her brother, the face of a foe!

O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,
We can never forget that our hearts have been one,
Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name,
From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame!

You were always too ready to fire at a touch;
But we said: "she is hasty, she does not mean much."
We have scowled when you uttered some turbulent threat;
But friendship still whispered: "Forgive and forget!"

Has our love all died out? Have its altars grown cold?
Has the curse come at last which the father's foretold?
Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chain
That her petulant children would sever in vain.

They may fight till the 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! When its fury is past,
Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last,
As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snow
Roll mingled in peace through the valley below.

Our Union is river, lake, ocean and sky;
Man breaks not the medal when God cuts the die!
Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with steel,
The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal!

O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,
There are battles with Fate that can never be won!
The star-flowering banner must never be furled,
For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world!

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 to our door!