Эдмунд Кларенс Стедман (Edmund Clarence Stedman)

Sumter

   April 12, 1861

Came the morning of that day
When the God to whom we pray
Gave the soul of Henry Clay
⁠     To the land;
How we loved him, living, dying!
But his birthday banners flying
Saw us asking and replying
⁠     Hand to hand.

For we knew that far away,
Round the fort in Charleston Bay,
Hung the dark impending fray,
⁠     Soon to fall;
And that Sumter's brave defender
Had the summons to surrender
Seventy loyal hearts and tender,—
⁠     (Those were all!)

And we knew the April sun
Lit the length of many a gun,—
Hosts of batteries to the one
⁠     Island crag:
Guns and mortars grimly frowning,
Johnson, Moultrie, Pinckney, crowning,
And ten thousand men disowning
     ⁠The old flag.

O, the fury of the fight
Even then was at its height!
Yet no breath, from noon till night,
     ⁠Reached us here;
We had almost ceased to wonder,
And the day had faded under,
When the echo of the thunder
⁠     Filled each ear!

Then our hearts more fiercely beat,
As we crowded on the street,
Hot to gather and repeat
⁠     All the tale;
All the doubtful chances turning,
Till our souls with shame were burning,
As if twice our bitter yearning
     ⁠Could avail!

Who had fired the earliest gun?
Was the fort by traitors won?
Was there succor? What was done
⁠     Who could know?
And once more our thoughts would wander
To the gallant, lone commander,
On his battered ramparts grander
     ⁠Than the foe.

Not too long the brave shall wait:
On their own heads be their fate,
Who against the hallowed State
     ⁠Dare begin;
Flag defied and compact riven!
In the record of high Heaven
How shall Southern men be shriven
⁠     For the sin?

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