A Brief Introduction and Story About Poetry
Quite a few years ago, prior to giving a Civil War presentation at an area school, I was asked by a teacher if I could somehow incorporate the subject of “English” into my presentation and show its importance during the civil war. I accepted the Challenge, apprehensively, and promised the teacher that I would do my best to come up with something. My time frame was rather short, about a week, and I was unsure if I could actually pull it off. I spent the first day wracking my brains for ideas. I finally decided to start sifting through all my books and papers, concerning the civil war, for ideas. Shortly into my task I came across a book on soldier’s letters and poetry written to loved ones on the home front. The light bulb suddenly turned on and I decided that this would be a great area to exploit. After reading some of the letters and poems, I decided that I would try my hand at writing poetry. I decided that the theme would be a historical accounting of a battle, something that when read, would explain the battle and help the reader learn. I sat down that evening and wrote “The Bloodiest Day” about the Battle of Sharpsburg, MD. (Antietam) on September 17th, 1862. To make a long story short, the poem was a big hit with not only the teacher but the students as well. I even surprised myself with my amateur talents. I was encouraged by all who read it to get it published, which I did. Over the next several years I decided to write six more poems for school presentations and the like. I have subsequently published all of them. I have used these poems as well as other poet’s poems as instructional aids for several years and wouldn’t do a presentation without them. I have included a few favorite poems as well as my own writings for you to share. I hope you enjoy them. Thank you for taking the time to read them.
Pete Gilbert Jr.
| The Bloodiest Day | Burnside Bridge | The Crimson Road |
| The Hornet's Nest | Field Of Tears | A Day to Mourn |
| The Remembrance | The Re-Enactor | Mustered Out |
| O' Captain! My Captain! | No Title |
(Sharpsburg, MD)
Dawn broke the stillness of the night,
The soldiers prayed before the fight.
The fog, it lifted from the ground,
The soldiers marched without a sound.
The men, they stood in lines of blue,
The cannon’s roar, two by two.
The fields of corn, that waved of green,
Are now a horrifying scene.
Fields of maze moved not a breath,
Tis now, a trampled field of death.
The men who did not see their foe,
Now lay by thousands in a row.
The blood, it stained the earth that day,
The stench of death for days did stay.
The fields of death lay silent now,
Which turned the weary farmer’s plow.
The markers of the dead stand tall,
To denote, this historic day for all.
For inquisitive people, who visit, can say,
This was America’s bloodiest day.
Written by: Pete Gilbert Jr.
Copyright: 1991
Published: 1991
“Sharpsburg”
At “Rohrbach’s Bridge” the standoff began,
A tombstone, which honors every last man.
Across this tiny bridge of stone,
The men in blue were relentlessly thrown,
Upon the commanding ridge of green,
The rebels vollied into the deep ravine.
The ranks of blue continued to assail,
Their velocity was to no avail.
The crimson swirls filled the creek,
Their dream to possess the ridge was bleak.
The bet of whiskey was finally made,
To any brave soul who’d charge the grade.
The rebel’s ammo was nearly spent,
They knew they’d never hold the ascent.
The men in gray began to recede,
They’d completed their task to harass and impede.
Now the bridge stands silent and serene,
A place where the soul’s of the dead can convene.
At “Rohrbach’s Bridge” the standoff began,
A tombstone, which honors every last man.
Written By: Pete Gilbert Jr.
Copyright: 1995
Published: 1995
“Bloody Lane”
Twas known by folks as the “Old Sunken Road”,
Where many a mill wagon carried its load.
The years of erosion constructed a trench,
That would unmercifully slaughter the troops of “Old French”.
On a late summers day in the mid of September,
This road would become a crimson remember.
The road was a breastwork of earth and rail,
Which soon would release a devastating hail.
As the rebs waited in silence and suspense,
For the lines of blue to approach the fence.
When out of the stillness the order sailed,
A thunderous roar erupted from the rail.
The horrible screams and scenes of death,
For most this would be their last mortal breath
The lines of blue fell by brigade,
From the relentless crack of the rebel enfilade.
The wrath of battle turned its tide,
When the rebs were attacked by the yanks on both sides.
The rebs would buckle from the sapphire waves,
For most this eroded lane was their grave.
In the trench the rebs lay two and three deep,
And on the encircled land the yanks lay in heaps.
For here the corpses baptized the earth,
And here was the beginning of this countries rebirth.
Twas known by folks as the “Old Sunken Road”,
Where many a mill wagon carried its load.
Written by: Pete Gilbert Jr.
Copyright: 1994
Published: 1995
(Shiloh)
On an April morn, in the theater west,
A battle raged in, “ The Hornet’s Nest”.
A sunken road protected by brush,
Many a reb did the Yankees crush.
Charge after charge the rebels maintained,
Until the debt of the day left the earth bloodstained.
The brush which protected, was a tangled mesh,
Amongst the scrub lay heaps of mutilated flesh.
The smoke and the gunfire, would the survivors tell,
Twas like marching into the gates of hell.
The yanks began a muttled retreat,
Which left the nest to a foretold defeat.
Surrounded were the union men,
Like hogs within the slaughter’s pen.
Cannons raked the lines of blue,
The confused and tattered yanks but knew.
The rebel flanks were finally shut,
The yanks still fought with barrel and butt.
“The Hornet’s Nest”, was all but lost,
For blue and for gray it was a heavy cost.
Now the ghosts, in silence stride,
For on that day death picked no side.
Written By: Pete Gilbert Jr.
Copyright: 1995
Published: 1995
The field of battle now lies calm and serene,
The blood and the carnage was an awful scene.
The colorful flags that snapped in the silence,
A prelude that marked the upcoming violence.
The lines of blue and gray that had surged,
The painful screams and thunder when they merged.
The dead and the dying that had laid scattered and torn,
From the furious fight that occurred on the morn.
The smoking caissons, the stench of burnt flesh,
The land appeared to be horrifying and hellish.
The strewn dead horses that had littered the field,
The fate of their riders was forever sealed.
Granite and metal are all that remains,
Of the men, who had hoped, would not die in vain.
For the men who had fallen during those years,
May they be remembered eternal on the “Field of Tears”.
Written By: Pete Gilbert Jr.
Copyright: 1992
Published: 1992
The guns fell silent one April morn,
Bobby Lee’s rebels were beaten and worn.
The terms of surrender, flashed in their minds,
They hoped, the yanks, would be merciful and kind.
The rebels waited in silence and fear,
When finally, their Bobby Lee did appear.
He rode his horse with head hung low,
The agony of four long years did show.
The orders were given to the men in gray,
For Bobby Lee, they would not disobey.
A wall of blue lined the road,
In silence the rebels marched in strode.
Their clothes were soiled , tattered rags,
For many, their shoes were but burlap bags.
Their burdens were heavy, their sorrows deep,
For some, all that could be done was weep.
They knew they had been to shorn,
For all, it was “A Day To Mourn”.
Written By: Pete Gilbert Jr.
Copyright: 1991
Published: 1995
In the spring of 1861,
The drums of rally had begun.
A war of brothers, or so it was called,
Battlefields of dead, torn and mauled.
A war of our ancestors, so who wants to remember,
A war, 130 plus years in our nations embers.
I did no know these soldiers of old,
A time well forgotten, or so I’ve been told.
That war is over, why can’t you let it just rest,
For some of us, maybe, that would be best.
Why should I learn this forgotten old war,
American history, what a huge bore.
How will it help me, in the years to come,
Certainly not me, I’m not dumb!
So tell me now, children, as you sit in your chair,
Why did your grandfather’s die, or do you not care.
For most of you who now sit here in stride,
Your grandfathers fought, struggled and died.
They died for your freedoms, your beliefs and your rights,
They died in the hopes you would never lose sight.
Maybe your grandfather was one of those men,
In a war, forgotten, way back when.
These men gave their lives for what they believed,
Their deaths have been twisted, dishonored, misconceived.
So I stand here before you, in clothes of the past,
In the hopes that your grandfather’s memory will last.
A memory which many of you should cherish,
So that the deeds that they died for will never perished.
Written By: Pete Gilbert Jr.
Copyright: 2002
Published: 2003
For the time that I last, I shall live in the past.
And remember the world’s fading glories…
The battles and heroes and songs that were sung,
And the nearly forgotten old stories.
Though I’ve earned not a cent for the time that I’ve spent,
And to many that’s surely a mystery…
I now recreate a time that was great,
In our countries own turbulent history.
Some call it a game… and some say, “for shame”…
And to the unknowing, it’s a useless vocation;
But I have shouldered a gun in the blistering sun,
And I’ve shivered at morning formation.
In my jacket of gray, I strive to portray,
The private Confederate soldier…
And though I taste not of death, nor the cannon’s fierce breath,
I shall not let his memory moulder.
When I’m finally called in, to account for my sin,
And to receive my Saviors just sentence,
If there’s a prayer on my breath ere I slip into death
Twould be, “God save the Old Southland forever”!
Written by:
Benjamin R. Gormley
1965
There’s a lonely grave in Virginia,
And a nameless sleeper there
Who fell when the tide of battle,
Rolled over the land so fair.
No costly marble marks the spot,
Where he fell mid the war’s stern rout,
But a rough-hewn cross and the simple words,
“A soldier mustered out”.
There are graves in the “Old Dominion”,
Where the hero’s lie at rest,
And piles of bronze and marble,
Stand above each sleeper’s breast,
But none are there among them all,
That fleck her hills about,
With a tomb so grandly simple,
As the soldier’s “mustered out”.
It stands in its solemn beauty,
By the ever moaning sea,
And the passing schooner proudly floats,
The flag he died to free.
The white-capped billows bow their heads,
And all the waters shout
And fling their foam wreaths round the grave,
Where he sleeps “mustered out”.
Those waters on that dreadful day,
Had seen him fighting fall,
And mingling with the battle’s smoke,
Had made the soldier’s pall,
No arms reversed, no muffled drum,
No shot and groan and shout,
These are the sounds that filled the air,
When he was “mustered out”.
No music of sweet requiem,
No church bell tolling low,
But clash of arms and cannon’s boom,
When he was called to go.
His Shroud a blood-stained, tattered flag,
His hymn the victor’s shout,
His knell was Cumberland’s last gun,
When he was “mustered out”.
All hero’s sleep not ‘neath tall shafts
Nor monuments of stone,
For many graves are marked, alas!
With one short word, “Unknown”.
There sleep brave men, who fought as those,
For whom the millions shout,
Till the Lord of battle gave command,
And they were “mustered out”.
But he who marks the sparrow’s fall,
Knows where each hero lies,
And humble blood for justice shed,
By him is not despised,
And when in the last reveille,
The dead ranks throng about,
Foremost among the just shall stand,
Those soldiers “mustered out”.
Written by: An Anonymous Confederate Soldier (his fate, “Unknown”)
* In memory of , 623,026 Americans*
(The captain is Lincoln; the ship is the Union)
O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rock, the prize we sought is 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,
While 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 bouquets and ribboned wreaths, for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the surging mass, their eager faces turning.
Hear, 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 no pulse, nor will.
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its 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.
Written By: Walt Whitman
(This short poem was written after Lincoln’s death)
No earthly bays befit his brow,
So holy and so calm;
He does not need the laurel wreath,
Who wins the martyr’s crown.
Written By: Lucy H. Hooper