Read Ebook: The Atlantic Monthly Volume 10 No. 57 July 1862 A Magazine of Literature Art and Politics by Various

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 654 lines and 85195 words, and 14 pages

THE

ATLANTIC MONTHLY.

A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.

SOME SOLDIER-POETRY.

It is certain that since the time of Homer the deeds and circumstances of war have not been felicitously sung. If any ideas have been the subject of the strife, they seldom appear to advantage in the poems which chronicle it, or in the verses devoted to the praise of heroes. Remove the "Iliad," the "Nibelungenlied," some English, Spanish, and Northern ballads, two or three Old-Bohemian, the war-songs composed by Ziska, and one or two Romaic, from the field of investigation, and one is astonished at the scanty gleaning of battle-poetry, camp-songs, and rhymes that have been scattered in the wake of great campaigns, and many of the above-mentioned are more historical or mythological than descriptive of war. The quantity of political songs and ballads, serious and satirical, which were suggested by the great critical moments of modern history, is immense. Every country has, or might have, its own peculiar collections. In France the troubles of the League gave an impulse to song-writing, and the productions of Desportes and Bertaut are relics of that time. Historical and revolutionary songs abound in all countries; but even the "Marseillaise," the gay, ferocious "Carmagnole," and the "?a Ira," which somebody wrote upon a drum-head in the Champ de Mars, do not belong to fighting-poetry. The actual business of following into the field the men who represent the tendencies of any time, and of helping to get through with the unavoidable fighting-jobs which they organize, seems to inspire the same rhetoric in every age, and to reproduce the same set of conventional war-images. The range of feeling is narrow; the enthusiasm for great generals is expressed in pompous commonplaces; even the dramatic circumstances of a campaign full of the movement and suffering of great masses of men, in bivouac, upon the march, in the gloomy and perilous defile, during a retreat, and in the hours when wavering victory suddenly turns and lets her hot lips be kissed, are scarcely seen, or feebly hinted at. The horizon of the battle-field itself is limited, and it is impossible to obtain a total impression of the picturesque and terrible fact. After the smoke has rolled away, the historian finds a position whence the scenes deliberately reveal to him all their connection, and reenact their passion. He is the real poet of these solemn passages in the life of man.

One would think that a poet in the ranks would sometimes exchange the pike or musket for the pen in his knapsack, and let all the feelings and landscapes of war distil through his fine fancy from it drop by drop. But the knapsack makes too heavy a draught upon the nervous power which the cerebellum supplies for marching orders; concentration goes to waste in doing porter's work; his tent-lines are the only kind a poet cares for. If he extemporizes a song or hymn, it is lucky if it becomes a favorite of the camp. The great song which the soldier lifts during his halt, or on the edge of battle, is generally written beforehand by some pen unconscious that its glow would tip the points of bayonets, and cheer hearts in suspense for the first cannon-shot of the foe. If anybody undertakes to furnish songs for camps, he prospers as one who resolves to write anthems for a prize-committee to sit on: it is sutler's work, and falls a prey to the provost-marshal.

But the early poetry which attempts the description of feats at arms which were points in the welfare of nations--when, for instance, Germany was struggling to have her middle class against the privileges of the barons--is more interesting than all the modern songs which nicely depict soldiers' moods. Language itself was fighting for recognition, as well as industrial and social rights. The verses mark successive steps of a people into consciousness and civilization. Some of this battle-poetry is worth preserving; a few camp-rhymes, also, were famous enough in their day to justify translating. Here are some relics, of pattern more or less antique, picked up from that field of Europe where so many centuries have met in arms.

The Northern war-poetry, before the introduction of Christianity, is vigorous enough, but it abounds in disagreeable commonplaces: trunks are cleft till each half falls sideways; limbs are carved for ravens, who appear as invariably as the Valkyrs, and while the latter pounce upon the souls that issue with the expiring breath, the former banquet upon the remains. The celebration of a victory is an exulting description of actual scenes of revelling, mead-drinking from mounted skulls, division of the spoils, and half-drunken brags of future prowess. The sense of dependence upon an unseen Power is manifested only in superstitious vows for luck and congratulations that the Strong Ones have been upon the conquering side. There is no lifting up of the heart which checks for a time the joy of victory. They are ferociously glad that they have beaten. This prize-fighting imagery belongs also to the Anglo-Saxon poetry, and is in marked contrast with the commemorative poetry of Franks and Germans after the introduction of Christianity. The allusions may be quite as conventional, but they show that another power has taken the field, and is willing to risk the fortunes of war. Norse poetry loses its vigor when the secure establishment of Christianity abolishes piracy and puts fighting upon an allowance. Its muscle was its chief characteristic. We speak only of war-poetry.

The King rode boldly, sang a holy song, And all together sang, Kyrie eleison. The song was sung; the battle was begun; Blood came to cheeks; thereat rejoiced the Franks; Then fought each sword, but none so well as Ludwig, So swift and bold, for 't was his inborn nature; He struck down many, many a one pierced through, And at his hands his enemies received A bitter drink, woe to their life all day. Praise to God's power, for Ludwig overcame; And thanks to saints, the victor-fight was his. Homeward again fared Ludwig, conquering king, And harnessed as he ever is, wherever the need may be, Our God above sustain him with His majesty!

William's minstrel, Taillefer, sang a song before the Battle of Hastings: but the Normans loved the purely martial strain, and this was a ballad of French composition, perhaps a fragment of the older "Roland's Song." The "Roman de Rou," composed by Master Wace, or Gasse, a native of Jersey and Canon of Bayeux, who died in 1184, is very minute in its description of the Battle of Val des Dunes, near Caen, fought by Henry of France and William the Bastard against Guy, a Norman noble in the Burgundian interest. The year of the battle was 1047. There is a Latin narrative of the Battle of Hastings, in eight hundred and thirty-five hexameters and pentameters. This was composed by Wido, or Guido, Bishop of Amiens, who died in 1075.

The German knights on their way to Jerusalem sang a holy psalm, beginning, "Fairest Lord Jesus, Ruler of the earth." This was discovered not long ago in Westphalia; a translation of it, with the music, can be found in Mr. Richard Willis's collection of hymns.

One would expect to gather fragments of war-poetry from the early times of the Hungarians, who held the outpost of Europe against the Turks, and were also sometimes in arms against the imperial policy of Germany. But De Gerando informs us that they set both victories and defeats to music. The "R?k?tzi" is a national air which bears the name of an illustrious prince who was overcome by Leopold. "It is remarkable that in Hungary great thoughts and deep popular feelings were expressed and consecrated, not by poetry, but by national airs. The armed Diets which were held upon the plain of R?kos were the symbol of ancient liberty to the popular apprehension; there is the 'Air of R?kos,' also the 'Air of Moh?cs,' which recalls the fall of the old monarchy, and the 'Air of Zrinyi,' which preserves the recollection of the heroic defence of Szigeth." These airs are not written; the first comer extemporized their inartificial strains, which the feeling of the moment seized upon and transmitted by tradition. Among the Servians, on the contrary, the heroic ballad is full of fire and meaning, but the music amounts to nothing.

In the thousand and three hundred and six and eightieth year Did God in special manner His favor make appear: Hei! the Federates, I say, They get this special grace upon St. Cyril's day.

That was July 9, 1386. The Swiss had been exasperated by the establishment of new tolls by the nobility, who were upheld in it by the Duke of Austria. The Federates began to attack the castles which sheltered the oppressive baronial power. The castle behind the little town of Willisow is stormed and burned. Thereupon the nobles swear to put these Swiss free peasants down and get them a master. The poet tells all this, and proceeds to describe their excesses and pride. Then,--

Ye Lowland lords are drawing hither to the Oberland, To what an entertainment ye do not understand: Hei! 't were better for shrift to call, For in the mountain-fields mischances may befall.

To which the nobles are imagined to reply,--

"Indeed! where sits the priest, then, to grant this needful gift?" In the Schweitz he is all ready,--he'll give you hearty shrift: Hei! he will give it to you sheer, This blessing will he give it with sharp halberds and such gear.

The Duke's people are mowing in the fields near Sempach. A knight insolently demands lunch for them from the Sempachers: a burgher threatens to break his head and lunch them in a heavy fashion, for the Federates are gathering, and will undoubtedly make him spill his porridge. A cautious old knight, named Von Hasenburg, rides out to reconnoitre, and he sees enough to warn the Duke that it is the most serious business in which he ever engaged.

Then spake a lord of Ochsenste?n, "O Hasenburg, hare-heart!" Him answereth Von Hasenburg, "Thy words bring me a smart: Hei! I say to you faithfully, Which of us is the coward this very day you'll see."

So the old knight, not relishing being punned upon for his counsel, dismounts. All the knights, anticipating an easy victory, dismount, and send their horses to the rear, in the care of varlets who subsequently saved themselves by riding them off. The solid ranks are formed bristling with spears. There is a pause as the two parties survey each other. The nobles pass the word along that it looks like a paltry business:--

So spake they to each other: "Yon folk is very small,-- In case such boors should beat us, 't will bring no fame at all: 'Hei! fine lords the boors have mauled!'" Then the honest Federates on God in heaven called.

"Ah, dear Christ of Heaven, by Thy bitter death we plead, Help bring to us poor sinners in this our strait and need; Hei! and stand by us in the field, And have our land and people beneath Thy ward and shield."

The shaggy bull was quite ready to meet the lion , and threw the dust up a little with its hoof.

"Hei! will you fight with us who have beaten you before?"

To this the lion replies,--

"Thank you for reminding me. I have many a knight and varlet here to pay you off for Laupen, and for the ill turn you did me at Morgarten; now you must wait here till I am even with you."

Now drew the growling lion his tail in for a spring: Then spake the bull unto him, "Wilt have your reckoning? Hei! then nearer to us get, That this green meadow may with blood be growing wet."

Then they began a-shooting against us in the grove, And their long lances toward the pious Federates move: Hei! the jest it was not sweet, With branches from the lofty pines down rattling at their feet.

The nobles' front was fast, their order deep and spread; That vexed the pious mind; a Winkelried he said, "Hei! if you will keep from need My pious wife and child, I'll do a hardy deed.

"Dear Federates and true, my life I give to win: They have their rank too firm, we cannot break it in: Hei! a breaking in I'll make. The while that you my offspring to your protection take."

Herewith did he an armful of spears nimbly take; His life had an end, for his friends a lane did make: Hei! he had a lion's mood, So manly, stoutly dying for the Four Cantons' good.

And so it was the breaking of the nobles' front began With hewing and with sticking,--it was God's holy plan: Hei! if this He had not done, It would have cost the Federates many an honest one.

The poem proceeds now with chaffing and slaughtering the broken enemy, enjoining them to run home to their fine ladies with little credit or comfort, and shouting after them an inventory of the armor and banners which they leave behind.

Veit Weber, a Swiss of Freiburg, also wrote war-verses, but they are pitched on a lower key. He fought against Charles the Bold, and described the Battle of Murten, June 22, 1476. His facetiousness is of the grimmest kind. He exults without poetry. Two or three verses will be quite sufficient to designate his style and temper. Of the moment when the Burgundian line breaks, and the rout commences, he says,--

One hither fled, another there, With good intent to disappear, Some hid them in the bushes: I never saw so great a pinch,-- A crowd that had no thirst to quench Into the water pushes.

They waded in up to the chin, Still we our shot kept pouring in, As if for ducks a-fowling: In boats we went and struck them dead, The lake with all their blood was red,-- What begging and what howling!

Up in the trees did many hide, There hoping not to be espied; But like the crows we shot them: The rest on spears did we impale, Their feathers were of no avail, The wind would not transport them.

He will not vouch for the number of the killed, but gives it on hearsay as twenty-six thousand drowned and slain; but he regrets that their flight was so precipitate as to prevent him from recording a more refreshing total. He is specially merry over the wealth and luxurious habits of Charles, alludes to his vapor-baths, etc.:--

His game of chess was to his cost, Of pawns has he a many lost, And twice his guard is broken; His castles help him not a mite, And see how lonesome stands his knight! Checkmate's against him spoken.

The wars of the rich cities with the princes and bishops stimulated a great many poems that are full of the traits of burgher-life. Seventeen princes declared war against Nuremberg, and seventy-two cities made a league with her. The Swiss sent a contingent of eight hundred men. This war raged with great fierceness, and with almost uninterrupted success for the knights, till the final battle which took place near Pillerent, in 1456. A Nuremberg painter, Hans Rosenpl?l, celebrated this in verses like Veit Weber's, with equal vigor, but downright prosaic street-touches. Another poem describes the rout of the Archbishop of Cologne, who attempted to get possession of the city, in 1444. All these Low-German poems are full of popular scorn and satire: they do not hate the nobles so much as laugh at them, and their discomfitures in the field are the occasion of elaborate ridicule.

It harms me not a mite, A wooden stump will make all right; And when it is no longer good, Some spital knave shall get the wood.

But if a ball my bosom strikes, On some wide field I lie, They'll take me off upon their pikes,-- A grave is always nigh; Pumerlein Pum,--the drums shall say Better than any priest,--Good day!

There is a very characteristic piece, without date or name of the writer, but which, to judge from the German, was written after the time of Luther. Nothing could better express the feeling of a people who have been saved by martial and religious enthusiasm, and brought through all the perils of history. It is the production of some Meistersinger, who introduced it into a History of Henry the Fowler, that was written by him in the form of a comedy, and divided into acts. He brings in a minstrel who sings the song before battle. The last verse, with adapted metre and music, is now a soldier's song.

Many a righteous cause on earth To many a battle growing, Of music God has thought them worth, A gift of His bestowing. It came through Jubal into life; For Lamech's son inventing The double sounds of drum and fife, They both became consenting. For music good Wakes manly mood, Intrepid goes Against our foes. Calls stoutly, "On! Fall on! fall on! Clear field and street Of hostile feet, Shoot, thrust them through, and cleave, Not one against you leave!"

Elias prophecy would make In thirsty Israel's passion: "To me a minstrel bring," he spake, "Who plays in David's fashion." Soon came on him Jehovah's hand, In words of help undoubted,-- Great waters flowed the rainless land, The foe was also routed.

Drom, Druri, Drom, Pom, Pom, Pom, Pom, Drumming and fifing good Make hero-mood; Prophets upspring, Poets, too, sing; Music is life To peace and strife,-- And men have ever heeded What chief by them is needed.

In Dorian mood when he would sing, Timotheus the charmer, 'Tis said the famous lyre would bring All listeners into armor: It woke in Alexander rage For war, and nought would slake it, Unless he could the world engage, And his by conquest make it. Timotheus Of Miletus Could strongly sing To rouse the King Of Macedon, Heroic one, Till, in his ire And manly fire, For shield and weapon rising, He went, the foe chastising.

For what God drives, that ever goes,-- So sang courageous Judith; No one can such as He oppose; There prospers what He broodeth. Who has from God a martial mood, Through all resistance breaking, Can prove himself 'gainst heroes good, On foes a vengeance taking. Drums, when we droop; Stand fast, my troop! Let dart and sabre The air belabor; Give them no heed, But be agreed That flight be a breach of honor: Of that be hearty scorner.

Although a part, as haps alway, Will faintly take to fleeing, A lion's heart have I to-day For Kaiser Henry's seeing. The wheat springs forth, the chaff's behind; Strike harder, then, and braver;

Perhaps they all will change their mind, So, brothers, do not waver! Kyrie eleison! Pidi, Pom, Pom, Pom, Alarum beat, There's no retreat; Wilt soon be slashed, Be pierced and gashed: But none of these things heeding, The foe, too, set a-bleeding.

Many good surgeons have we here, Again to heal us ready; With God's help, then, be of good cheer, The Pagans grow unsteady: Let not thy courage sink before A foe already flying; Revenge itself shall give thee more, And hearten it, if dying. Drom, Drari, Drom, Kyrie eleison! Strike, thrust,--for we Must victors be; Let none fall out, Keep order stout; Close to my side, Comrade, abide! Be grace of God revealed now, And help us hold the field now!

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet