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Page 125
Richmond Senitnel.
Chickamuga! Chickamauga!
O'er thy dark and turbid wave
Rolls the death-cry of the daring,
Rings the war-shout of the brave;
Round thy shore the red fires flashing,
Startling shot and screaming shell--
Chickamauga, stream of battle,
Who thy fearful tale shall tell?
Olden memories of horror,
Sown by scourge of deadly plague,
Long hath clothed thy circling forests
With a terror vast and vague;
Now to gather further vigor
From the phantoms grim with gore,
Hurried, by war's wilder carnage,
To their graves on thy lone shore.
Long, with hearts subdued and saddened,
As th' oppressor's hosts moved on,
Fell the arms of freedom backward,
Till our hopes had almost flown;
Till outspoke stern valor's fiat--
"_Here_ th' invading wave shall stay;
_Here_ shall cease the foe's proud progress;
_Here_ be crushed his grand array!"
_Then_ their eager hearts all throbbing,
Backward flashed each battle-flag
Of the veteran corps of Longstreet,
And the sturdy troops of Bragg;
Fierce upon the foemen turning,
All their pent-up wrath breaks out
In the furious battle-clangor,
And the frenzied battle-shout.
Roll thy dark waves, Chickamauga,
Trembles all thy ghastly shore,
With the rude shock of the onset,
And the tumult's horrid roar;
As the Southern battle-giants
Hurl their bolts of death along,
Breckenridge, the iron-hearted,
Cheatham, chivalric and strong:
Polk Preston--gallant Buckner,
Hill and Hindman, strong in might,
Cleburne, flower of manly valor,
Hood, the Ajax of the fight;
Benning, bold and hardy warrior,
Fearless, resolute Kershaw;
Mingle battle-yell and death-bolt,
Volley fierce and wild hurrah!
At the volleys bleed their bodies,
At the fierce shout rise their souls,
While the fiery wave of vengeance
On their quailing column rolls;
And the parched throats of the stricken
Breathe for air the roaring flame,
Horrors of that hell foretasted,
Who shall ever dare to name!
Borne by' those who, stiff and mangled,
Paid, upon that bloody field,
Direful, cringing, awe-struck homage
To the sword our heroes yield;
And who felt, by fiery trial,
That the men who will be free.
Though in conflict baffled often,
Ever will unconquered be!
Learned, though long unchecked they spoil us,
Dealing desolation round,
Marking, with the tracks of ruin,
Many a rood of Southern ground;
Yet, whatever course they follow,
_Somewhere_ in their pathway flows,
Dark and deep, a Chickamauga,
_Stream of death_ to vandal foes!
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