Loss of the USS Monitor

Today marks the 150^th anniversary of the sinking of the USS Monitor. It seems that the event has drawn little notice in the blogosphere with everyone trying to get posts on Murfreesboro and the anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation set for January 1, 2013. I must admit I had lost sight of it myself. My post on Murfreesboro , in particular “Hell's Half Acre” at the Round Forrest could not be pulled together to suit me, and the EP is best left to abler minds and pens than mine. What to do?

While searching Frank Leslie's Illustrated for something to tie in with Murfreesboro, I stumbled across the following poem (again???!!!) dealing with the loss of the Monitor. Although I enjoy sharing some of the poetry I find in my studies, I hate to do two posts back to back built on it. After thinking about it most of the day, I decided to go ahead with it. Two reasons led me to the decision. First, it is a great poem! It is at once heroic and sad, yet not full of flowery language that leaves your mind lost as to the poets intent. Secondly, after a perusal of the Official Records of the navies, I found it strikingly accurate, with little artistic license being employed.

It may not be completely accurate but close enough, and as a memorial to the sailors that perished aboard Monitor and her tow, the USS Rhode Island, it accomplished its mission. I beg pardon to those of you that do not like poetry but please read it anyway. It is another of my rare “Sesquicentennial Moments”. It is rather lengthy but it will keep your attention.

 

Crew of the Monitor,

 

The Monitor: December 31, 1862

In gallant trim, with fame elate,
the foremost of our Ironsides,
the Monitor, with noble freight
forth on the Atlantic billow rides.

Monroe's grim fort, from iron mouth,
thunders “God Speed” and “Victory!”
With answering cheer, towards the South
on steams the hero of the sea.

Commander J.P. Bankhead, USS Monitor

Old Ocean smiled, the wind was light,
the sailors wore a joyous air,
so passed the day, and so the night,
and all around was calm and fair.

But with the morning clouds arose,
which deepened, till, when evening came,
fierce on her fell those giant blows,
sending dull tremors thro' her frame.

But as a rider strides his horse,
which rages neath his weight, so kept
our gallant boat her onward course,
and thro' the tempest swept.

But art is weak when Nature rears
in wrath sublime her giant form,
and clothed in lurid night, rides forth
upon the volleying storm.

Down thro' the gaping seams the wave
poured its insidious tide, as erst
o'er Arqua's walls the invaders crept,
ere fell swoop the stormers burst.

Firm at their post, the gallant crew
struggled with night, and storm, and sea,
'twas all in vain— the tempest grew,
and battled for its victory.

The spectral blue lights rose in vain,
from the Rhode Island--soaring high--
in one brief gleam they pierce the rain,
then perish in the sky.

O'er deck and tower the maddened waves
like living creatures rush and leap,

Commander Stephen D. Trenchard, USS Rhode Island

as 'tho Old Ocean had unchained
the demons of the deep.

'Twas the threshold of the morn--
Midnight, without a star looked on;
and as the stormy day was born,
the Monitor was gone!

For with one shuddering lurch, as tho
it knew its doom, above the wave
it rose an instant, then below
plunged deep into its grave.

Brave hearts were quenched forever then,
they died as honor loves to die,
in striking chains from fellow men--
for Truth and Liberty!

And honor to the glorious band,
who, scorning the wild tempests breath,
grappled their sinking comrades hand,
and dragged them back from death!*

Worden and Bankhead—gallant twain, **
for one brief minute ye may weep
your ocean home beneath the main,
then to fresh triumphs on the deep!
II
'Twas the last morn of '62,
and by the long gray strips of sand
of Hatteras the seagulls flew,
at instincts blind command.

And all that day around the spot
where sank the noble Monitor,
The staunch Rhode Island cruised--
forgot were storm and oceans roar.

But fathoms deep below the wave,
our grand heroic brothers rest,
the corals guard their sacred grave;
and sea flowers deck each breast.

Where o'er their billowy pall each night
the sighing winds roll and surge,
the choral voices, vast and dim--
Old Oceans solemn dirge.

Unfortunately I was unable to find who actually wrote this poem and no mention of the author was given in Leslie's.

 

The Picket

* The USS Monitor went down off Cape Hatteras, North Carolina at about 1:30 AM, December 31, 1862, with sixteen sailors lost. Rhode Island lost eight in their efforts to save the crew of the stricken ironclad.

**Lieutenant John L. Worden, First commander of the Monitor, Commander J.P. Bankhead the last.

A Poem for a New Year- Henry Timrod

Art thou not glad to close

Thy wearied eyes, O saddest child of time?
Eyes which have looked on every mortal crime,
And swept the piteous round of mortal woes?



Savage Station, June 1862



In dark Plutonian caves,
Beneath the lowest deep, go, hide thy head;
Or earth thee where the blood that thou hast shed
May trickle on thee from the countless graves!

Take with thee all thy gloom

And guilt, and all our griefs, save what the breast,
Without a wrong to some dear shadowy guest,
May not surrender even to the tomb.

Burying the dead at Fredericksburg

No tear shall weep thy fall,

When, as the midnight bell doth toll thy fate,
Another lifts the scepter of thy state,
And sits a monarch in thine ancient hall.

Him all hours attend,

With a hope like morning in their eyes;
Him the fair earth and him these radiant skies
Hail as their sovereign, welcome as their friend.

Him to the nations wait;

“O lead us from the shadow of the past.”
In a long wail like this December blast,
They cry, and crying grow less desolate.

How he will shape his sway

They ask not-- for old doubts and fears will cling--
And yet they trust that, somehow, he will bring
A sweeter sunshine than thy mildest day.

Fishing on the James River
 

Beneath his gentle hand
They hope to see no meadow, vale, or hill
Stained with a deeper red than roses spill,
When some too boisterous zephyr sweeps the land.

A time of peaceful prayer,
Of law, love, labor, honest loss and gain--
These are the visions of the coming reign
Now floating to them on this wintry air.

Henry Timrod, “1866- Addressed to the Old Year” [1]

 

Henry Timrod was born December 8, 1829 in Charleston, South Carolina. He studied at the University of Georgia but due to ill health he left the school and never returned. After leaving school he studied law in the office of a prominent Charleston lawyer but had no particular relish for that line of work. He would again take up his classical studies, on his own, and he hoped to one day gain a professorship. He never attained the heights of academia he desired, but he did teach the children of a wealthy South Carolina planter for several years. His poetry as well as some prose, would appear in magazines such as “The Southern Literary Messenger and Russell's Magazine. In 1860 Ticknor and Fields of Boston, Massachusetts produced a slim volume of his poems. [1]

He enlisted in the 20^th South Carolina Infantry in 1862 but was soon discharged, again owing to poor health. Afterward he became a war correspondent for the Charleston Mercury, and later became editor for the newspaper, The South Carolinian. [2]

He survived the war and died October 7, 1867, a relatively young man of 37 years.

The Picket

Sources

1- The Poems of Henry Timrod, Timrod, Henry, 1829-1867, New York, E.J. Hale and Son, 1873. from http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/007673617

2- The Cyclopedia of American Biographies, 1903, Federal Book Company, Boston Massachusetts

Photo Credits

All photos from Library of Congress:

Savage Station, from http://www.loc.gov/pictures/item/cwp2003000090/PP/

Burying the Dead at Fredericksburg, from http://www.loc.gov/pictures/item/2012647840/

Fishing on the James, from http://www.loc.gov/pictures/collection/cwp/item/cwp2003004854/PP/

Drawing is left side of Harper's Weekly centerpiece, January 3, 1863, volume 7, number 314, from Internet Archive, http://archive.org/stream/harpersweeklyv7bonn#page/8/mode/2up

by Thomas Nast

Father Ryans Poetry Pt. 2

Requiem Chant for the Federal Dead by Father Ryan

Fr. Abram J. Ryan in later life

The restless find rest, in the lonesome, still grave,
And the bravest and best, and the truest and brave,
Whose work hath been done, work heavy and hard
They, each, every one, win highest reward
This grave is their throne, and when they lie down
In the grave, still and lone, they wear the crown
None other may wear, and the living have care
Of the still, lonesome grave, of the true and the brave
The brave are the true, and the true are the brave.
Wearers of Blue, who rest in the grave.
I of the Gray, today chant your dirge,
In the battle’s red surge, your bright lives were wrecked
Never a wave that hath not been flecked
By the whitest of foam a-crowning its crest
You fought for your home, your name and your rest
Ah, God knoweth best, the ways of this world.
The banner is furled, that waved o’er the Gray,
The banner still waves that flashed o’er the Blue
And this sacred day, you bring to still graves,
The sweet flowers of May, to crown the dead braves.
Who saved from the Gray, the Union for you.
Yours the bright Blue, that colors the skies                        
Stars in it for you, whose light never dies.
Mine the dark Gray and sad as a cloud,
Skies and stars stay, clouds float away.
Ah! Dear Southern Dead, the Ghosts of the Gray
Whose brave blood was shed, ye are with me today.
And I am your voice. I hear what you say.
Priest of our God, the men of the Blue and the men of the Gray
Lie dead ‘neath the sod, chant the praise of the men
Who met us in fight, on stream, crag and glen,
Each heart for its right, sing the true and the brave,
Who met in the fray, cry out from the grave.
Both the Blue and the Gray, each grave is so calm
Our still voices blend, in a beautiful psalm.
Let all hatreds end, from the bright Golden Shore
We cry to the world, be brothers once more.
One banner is furled, the other still waves,
O'er us and the Brave, and from far away,
We, the Blue and the Gray, ah! together we pray,
Let never hand sever, one bright star from star,
We see it from afar, and its star-folds shall float forever and ever.

As promised, this is yet another poem written by Fr. Abram Ryan, Poet-priest of the South. As this poem was written long after the end of the American Civil War, you may notice a reduction of sectional patriotic fervor. It was not meant to ease the grief of losing the war, nor was it intended to arouse old patriotism and memories in the breast of the old Confederate. You may detect just a hint of sorrow for the “Lost Cause” but the central theme of this poem is that of reconciliation. It was read Memorial Day, 1884, at the decoration of soldiers graves at Reinzi Cemetery in Fon Du Lac, Wisconsin, yet it was never published in any of the later editions of Father Ryans poetry. [1]

The final stanza, with the dead of both sides speaking:

We, the Blue and the Gray, Ah! Together we pray,
Let never hand sever, one bright star from star.
We see it from afar, and its star-folds shall float forever and ever.

Did I say there was reduced patriotism? I take it back. Patriots, Blue and Gray, for one nation and one flag now.

The Picket

Source

The Father Abram J. Ryan Archive at Belmont Abbey College, Belmont, North Carolina, retrieved from http://crusader.bac.edu/library/rarebooks/Ryanfiles/

A Mother's Prayer

A Mothers Prayer [1]

“Faith”

Father, in the battle fray,

Shelter his dear head, I pray!
Nerve his young arm with the might
Of Justice, Liberty, and Right.
Where the red hail deadliest falls,
Where stern duty loudly calls,
Where the strife is fierce and wild--
Father! Guard, oh guard my child!

Where the foe rush swift and strong,
Madly striking for the wrong;
Where the clash of angry steel
Rings above the battle-field;
Where the stifling air is hot,
With bursting shell and whistling shot;
Father, to my boy's brave breast
Let no treacherous blade be pressed!

Father! If my woman's heart--
Frail and weak in every part--
Wanders from Thy mercy seat,
After those dear roving feet,
Let Thy tender pitying grace
Every selfish thought erase!
If this mother love be wrong,
Pardon, bless, and make me strong.

For when silent shades of night

Shut the bright world from my sight,
When, around the cheerful fire,

Gather brothers, sisters, sire:                                     


Father Ryan during the war.

Then I miss my boy's bright face                                         

From the old familiar place,
And my sad heart wanders back
To tented field and bivouac.

Often in my troubled sleep

Waking- wearily to weep--
Often dreaming he is near,
Calming every anxious fear--
Often startled by the flash
Of hostile swords that meet and clash,
Till the cannons smoke and roar
Hide him from my sight no more.

Thus I dream, and hope, and pray,
All the weary hours away;
But I know his cause is just,
And I center all my trust
In Thy promise-- “As Thy day, so
shall thy strength be”--alway!
Yet I need Thy guidance still;
Father, let me do Thy will.

If new sorrow should befall,

If my noble boy should fall,

If the bright head I have blessed

On the cold earth find its rest;

Still, with all the mother heart,

Torn and quivering with the smart,

I yield him 'neath Thy chastening rod,

To his country and his God!

This beautiful piece of poetry was written by Father Abram Joseph Ryan sometime during the American Civil War. Ryan has been proclaimed as “The Poet Priest of the South” or “The Poet Priest of the Confederacy” dating back to the war itself. He was born on February 5, 1838 and died April 22, 1886. Beyond that I can not at this time give much more information. Manuscripts that I have found, ranging from the late 19^th century through to more recent works including Catholic journals and encyclopedias contain so much conflicting information about him that it is difficult establish accurate facts. As an example, some manuscripts give his birth date as August 15, 1839. Some list his place of birth as Norfolk, Virginia while others say Hagerstown Maryland. You can see what I am up against here. I am going to keep digging since I am working on posts pertaining to Civil War chaplains and he after all was a priest, but again conflicting sources say he never actually joined the Confederate army and others say he did. The only agreement is that he served the Southern soldier as best he could.

Be that as it may, Father Ryan's poetry stands alone in its power, patriotism, and depth of feeling that is unparalleled by any poet of the day, North or South. In fact, many of them could find a place in a Yankee home as easily as one found in Dixie. Mothers all across the land may have found solace in this piece.

Although Ryan may be best noted for post war laments for the Lost Cause, not all of his work exudes the despondency of “The Conquered Banner” or “The Sword of Robert Lee”, and I will show one of his post war poems that bears no resemblance to those two poems in an up coming post.

Source:

1-War Lyrics and Songs of the South, Ryan, Abram Joseph, 1866, page 42

Image from Belmont Abbey College Collection, Belmont, North Carolina

The Picket