Guilford Battle Ground

---

A hundred years ago, or more, where now the wild flowers grow,

A sturdy band of warriors stood, with front-face to the foe.

The sunshine glistened on their guns, across the level plain,

And sparkled on their gleaming swords, so lately drenched with rain;

For the night had been tempestuous, with bitter sleet and hail,

Where the campfires died in darkness, swept by the wintry gale.

But now the sun was glorious, above the Eastern hills,

While thoughts of coming battle every freeman’s bosom thrills.

The sons of Carolina, from mountain, shore, and glen,

Were gathered in their patriot strength, a band of gallant men.

Virginia too and Delaware and Maryland were there,

Alike to share in bloody graves or victor’s crown to wear;

And o’er them flashing proudly, in the orange light of morn,

The banner of the nation, by her hardy sons was borne,

The silent sea of woods around, the over-bending blue,

The sunshine sprinkling golden rain, upon the glittering dew.

The crimson of the maples, the emerald of the pines,

The whisper of the early breeze among the clinging vines,

The crystal of the meadows, where silver streams ran by, 

The pearly clouds, soft fading, in the sapphire of the sky.

All made a scene of beauty, while wreaths of golden mist,

Floating upward from the valley, by rising sunbeams kissed,

Hung graceful on the treetops, as loath to melt away,

And lose their airy lightness, in the gorgeousness of day.

Yes!  Earth was full of beauty, of peacefulness and rest,

And like a babe of innocence, reclining on her breast,

Fond Nature was awakening with joyous thought of Spring,

And listening with her tuneful ear to the low, soft murmuring

That birds and brooks were making before the stir of men

Should rudely break the witchery of valley, field, and glen,

Ah!  Terrible awakening from dreams of blest repose*

By sounds of sudden battle, as the serried* ranks uprose.*

For soon on earth and heaven the fearful thunder broke,

The thunder of artillery, the flash, the blinding smoke

That slowly lifted up, aloft from every deadly gun,

And from that scene of loveliness blotted the golden sun.

All day, the roar of battle surged across that blood-drenched plain,

All day, the ruthless riders were tramping o’er the slain,

Davie and Greene and Campbell and Winston too, were there

Like heroes of Thermopylae,* they fought against despair.

And when the pall of darkness enwrapped the gloomy night,

When the icy rain descended, and the wind in bitter might,

The weary combat slackened; the foe, with sullen tread,

Tramped here and there in silence, numbering their countless dead.

That gory field was dearly bought, but all the world around,

Echoed the cry of freedom, from Guilford’s Battle Ground;

And generations, yet unborn, shall tell in song and story,

The epic of that bloody fight, which woke a nation’s glory

The silence of a hundred years upon these graves has lain,

Where sleep these ancient heroes, in bloody battle slain.

He Spring-time in its beauty, the Summer in its prime,

The dropping leaves of Autumn, each gladsome Christmas chime,

Alike have passed unnoted by the quiet slumberers here,

They lie in glory, let them rest, knowing no hope nor fear.

“Tis ours to rear a marble shaft ‘neath heaven’s o’er-arched dome,

And link each name, with deathless fame, a hundred years to come.

     Shall they be unremembered, those heroes of old?

     Their graves all forgotten, their glory untold?

     Shall Time, in his flight, bear their prestige away?

     And the deeds they have done, be the thought of a day?

     Ah!  No, from this spot, let a pillar arise,

     And the gray of the stone pierce the blue of the skies.

     Let the evergreen Spring where their ashes repose,

     And plant o’er them sleeping, the lily and rose.

     On the columns above them, let ivy entwine,

     ‘Neath the Palm of the South and the North-nurtured Pine.

     May the angel of dew, rest light on the sod,

     Where their bodies are waiting the trumpet of God.

     The elm and the oak, o’er these martyrs of ours,

     Soft shadows shall fling, where the eglantine* flowers.

     Let the gold-willow bend, in its gracefulness, low,

     While violets, like stars, in the Spring-time shall glow

     Let the granite arise, where our soldiers are laid,

     A pillar of praise, ‘neath the emerald shade;

     Let each name be emblazoned in letters of gold,

    Where are gathered and garnered these heroes of old.

     Let the winds whisper low, to the footsteps around,

    “Tread lightly, ‘tis sacred, this lone Battle Ground.”

    By Mrs. E. D. Hundley

    Greensboro, North Carolina

* See Glassary

      This poem was read by Miss Edith Hagan at a celebration held at the Guilford Battle Ground on October 15, 1892.  In the picture above, Miss Hagen is most likely holding the poem she read which was written by Mrs. Ellen Dowdell Hundley. 

The occasion was the dedication of the Maryland Battle Monument, erected to the memory of the soldiers of Maryland who fought at The Battle of Guilford Court House.  

        Also pictured above were the following participants of the celebration:  B. F. Dixon provided an opening prayer.  Professor Edward Graham Daves of Baltimore gave a speech "Maryland and North Carolina in the Campaign of 1780-1781." 

Professor E. A. Alderman also spoke on behalf of the Guilford Battle Ground Company.  The crowd next sang "The Old North State" before marching to the monument where Miss Edith Hagen recited a poem by Mrs. E. D. Hundley.  Finally the monument was unveiled while the song "Honour the Brave" was played. 

       MARYLAND'S TRIBUTE TO / 

       HER HEROIC DEAD. / 

       ERECTED BY MEMBERS OF / 

       THE MARYLAND HISTORICAL /SOCIETY / 

       IN MEMORY OF THE SOLDIERS / 

       OF THE MARYLAND LINE. / 

       1781-1892 / 

       NON OMNIS MORIAR 

Bright Poet! Would that power of mine,

      Might call thy spirit back to earth,

But e'en in meaner forms to shine,

      Thy genius hath no second birth.

That jeweled mind, so finely chased,

      Strung with the pearls of sweetest lore,

Thy mellow rhyme, poetic fire,

      On this dull earth we'll see no more.

The fire that lit thy glowing eye,

      Thy classic brow so pure and fair,

The casket worthy to contain,

      The sparkling gems that clustered there.

Thou hadst thy faults, (who has them not?) 

      Yet hardly was thy spirit tried,

And we must grieve that thy bright soul,

      By sorrow was not purified.

We know, though beauteous and endowed,

      With thoughts of sweet and gifted tone,

That on thy heart a shadow fell,

      And sorrow marked thee for her own.

Oh! who can paint the deep despair,

      That crushed thy spirit, sad and lone,

When she thou lovedst so true and well,

      Left thee for some less gifted one.

Thou art condemned by those who think,

      They have no faults themselves to own,

Had they their trials, who may not say,

      They would in deeper vice have gone.

Thou wert to blame, but let not those,

      Whom dark temptation ne'er assailed,

Denounce thee now, had fortune smiled,

      Thy better nature had prevailed.

But let that pass, I only think,

      On thine impassioned verses lay,

Which hath the power I frankly own,

      To write my reason quite away.

Oh! sweetest bard that ever wrote,

      Would I to earth could lure thee back,

To win a purer, nobler fame.

      And tread anew a brilliant track.

By Nannie Grey

           George Gordon Byron was born 22 Jan 1788 in London, England.  

He died at age 36 on 19 Apr 1824 in present day Greece.   Lord Byron is described as the most flamboyant and notorious of the major Romantics.  

He was both celebrated and castigated in his life for his aristocratic excesses and scandalous liaisons.  Two of his notable works are Don Juan  and Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.   

        Information and picture are from Wikipedia.  

Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=11540297

Far across the deep blue waters,

     Came a vessel in its pride,

While within all hearts with joy,

     Beat boundless as ocean’s tide.

Life and hope were in that steamer,

     Dancing o’er the bounding waves,

All unthinking that beneath them,

     Yawned their dark and watery graves.

There the bride and ardent lover,**

     Dreamed of lands beyond the seas,

And of spicy isles empowered,

     With orange groves and almond trees.

There the mother’s heart beat faster,

     As she braved the ocean wide,

Once again to meet with pleasure,

     Her beloved and wandering child. 

Those were there, who’d left their homes,

     To cross the ever-restless sea,

Dreaming there of friends and kindred,

     They were never more to see.

For when Morpheus* soft and balmy

     Shook his poppies o’er their eyes,

They had looked their last on ocean

     And on Heaven’s bright beaming skies.

And when morning fair and golden,

     Sparkled radiant as a bride,

Those bright hearts so lately beating,

     Slept beneath the foamy tide.

Now, fond friends, across the ocean,

     Look for friends, and look in vain,

For the “Arctic” bold and gallant,

     Ne’er shall cross the sea again.

            By Nannie Grey 

 * See Glossary

**The young Frenchman and his bride.

     The SS Arctic was a 3,000-ton paddle steamer carrying passengers and mail across the Atlantic. The ship was at the time the largest and most splendid of the Collins Line Steamships. On September 27, 1854 while on its normal route, the SS Arctic collided with the French steamer, SS Vesta, in the fog. Casualties included 92 of her 153 officers and men, and all her women and children passengers, totaling 400. The fact that no women or children survived, hit the public quite hard and after that, “women and children first,” became a well-known cry in disasters. The captain stayed onboard to go down with the ship and he was standing on the cover to the paddle wheel. When totally under water, the wheel unit broke free from the ship and popped back up bringing the captain with it. He helped others onto the floating paddle wheel unit with him and they survived the sinking of the ship.

     There is a large monument in Green-Wood Cemetery, Brooklyn, New York, dedicated to all who lost their lives. It is dedicated to the Brown Family who lost several family members in the tragedy. The monument features a depiction of the sinking paddle-wheel steamer carved in marble.

(This poem was published on October 17, 1854 for the Norfolk Evening Bulletin, Virginia, on the sinking of the SS Arctic.)

The picture above is of the  U.S. mail steam ship, Arctic, from an original 1850 lithograph by N. Currier, Prints and Photographs Online Catalogue,

U.S. Library of Congress.  

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/SS_Arctic#/media/File:USM_steamship_

Arctic_(1850).jpg 

Backgound information from:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/SS_Arctic_disaster.  

Also, see My Blog, number 5.

In January, when the snow,

A mantle of peace on the earth below

Looked pure as an angel’s thoughts divine.

And bright as the golden sun’s decline

When Heaven smiled at the eventide,

When the stars trooped forth in regal pride,

A gracious gift from the Father’s hand,

A hero was born, in the sweet southland.

A hero, by every rule of art,

With a gentle soul and a loving heart

With well poised brain and spirit of fire.

Coming down through the ages from sire to sire,

When the beauteous babe on his mother’s breast,

Smiled soft as a cherub taking its rest,

No thought was there of the coming time,

When the years should make his life sublime.

Gentle as a woman, yet firm in command

He ruled by love, in his native land.

The knightliest knight, the noblest of men,

We ne’er shall look on his like again.

In all the annuls of glory and fame,

In all the ages, there is no name,

No country so blest with a hero, as he,

The man of the century, Robert E. Lee.

When through the embattled lines he rode,

There flashed his burning, glittering sword,

Where floated the “stars and bars” on high,

A nation’s hope, ‘neath the azure sky – 

Soon to be torn and tempest tossed,

Overwhelmed by numbers, but never lost – 

Not lost, for lo’ o’er the hearts of the brave,

A glory spot, on each hero’s grave.

The battle’s over, with equal pride,

He laid his gleaming sword aside – 

Retired from war, with a courtly grace

This knightly son of a royal race,

With a laurel wreath and a martyr’s crown.

And on history’s page, an endless renown,

For the world never saw, yea, never shall see –

A grander man, than Robert E. Lee.

By E. D. Hundley

Greensboro, North Carolina

          "The previous poem was written by Mrs. E. D. Hundley, of Greensboro, and read before the United Daughters of the Confederacy Chapter there on Lee’s birthday (January 19th) several years ago.  It is furnished by her grand-daughter, Mrs. Charles Patrick Sellars (Vivian Grey Shober Sellars)."

Why the Memory of Lee is Honored.

He, Who Was the Plumed Knight of Battle, Arose Equally Majestic Above Scenes of Trial and Disaster.

(Special to News and Observer.)

Greensboro, North Carolina, January 20th.

       Jackson and Lee's birthdays were observed here yesterday by the closing of the banks., exercises at the public library, and at the graded schools of the city. The Guilford Chapter of the Daughters of the Confederacy held its meeting in the rooms of the Merchants and Manufacturers' Club, and had special exercises in the afternoon in memory of the noble dead.  A beautiful poem on Lee, composed by Mrs. E. D. Hundley, of this city, an honorary member of the Guilford Chapter, was read by Mrs. R. F. Dalton, the author being too unwell to be present.  

         Robert E. Lee was born January 19, 1807 in Westmoreland County, Virginia and he died on October 12, 1870  in Lexington, Virginia.  He was a Colonel in the United States Army in 1861 serving along side Ulysses S. Grant. Then in 1862 he was a General of the Confederacy fighting against Grant before surrendering to him.

         Interesting note:  My paternal great-grandfather was named Ulysses Grant Lyons.

Information:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_E._Lee

Picture:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_E._Lee#/media/File:Monument_Ave_Robert_E._Lee.jpg

Dear Comrade in a warfare

     That shall never know defeat,

Brave spirit of a legion

     That has never called retreat,

At the fiery front of battle 

     Where the bravest fear to stand

We have seen thy flag of triumph

     For God and native land.

Like the silver sound of bugles

     Clear thy clarion notes have come,

Cheering on thy faithful followers

     To strike for God and home.

For thee, the strife is over, 

     Thou layest thine armor down,

On earth, a fame immortal, 

     In heaven, the victor’s crown.

Sleep sweet, beneath the roses,

     White carnations on thy breast,

With God’s sentinels above thee

     In the land of perfect rest.

Up, in Glory’s fields, elysian*

     Where the good shall live for aye*,

In the bliss of love supernal,

     In the everlasting day.

Thou art gone – thy place is vacant;

     ‘Mid bitter sighs and tears

We shall look, with painful longing

     For the tender guide of years:

For the brain of matchless wisdom,

     For the tongue of holy fire,

For the hand so firm and gentle,

     Striking now, the Heavenly lyre.

We shall miss thee in our councils;

     Miss thy thought of magic mold;

Miss thy burning words of beauty,

     From a heart of wealth untold.

Miss thy presence in the Temple,

     When sweet voices fill the air;

Miss thee, ‘mid the poor and suffering;

     Miss thee, sadly, everywhere.

The Palm and Pine are sighing

     In mournful tones of grief,

For thou in death art lying

     Like a ripened, golden sheaf.

On the pure white marble gleaming,

     On the granite shafts that rise – 

We shall read; “Dear Frances Willard 

     With the SAINTS in PARADISE.”

*See Glossary

By Mrs. E. D. Hundley  

Greensboro, North Carolina

For "The White Ribbon"

February 27, 1898

         When the Women’s Christian Temperance Union (WCTU) became the publishers of the first women run newspaper in 1895, they called the paper “The White Ribbon” in recognition of the fact that the white ribbon was the symbol of the suffrage movement. 

                    (September 28, 1839 – February 17, 1898)

           Frances Willard was an American educator, temperance reformer, and Women's Suffragist.  (The word suffrage means the right to vote in elections.  It does not have to do with suffering).  In 1874, Willard participated in the founding convention of the Women's Christian Temperance Union (WCTU) where she was elected the first Corresponding Secretary. 

          In 1879 as president of the WCTU, the crux of Willard's argument for female suffrage was based on the platform of "Home Protection," which she described as "the movement … the object of which is to secure for all women above the age of twenty-one years the ballot as one means for the protection of their homes from the devastation caused by the legalized traffic in strong drink." The "devastation" she was referencing was the prevalence of violent acts against women committed by intoxicated men, both in and outside the home.   

           Willard's suffrage argument also hinged on her feminist interpretation of Scripture.  She claimed that natural and divine laws called for equality in the American household, with the mother and father sharing leadership.  She expanded this notion of the home, arguing that men and women should lead side by side in matters of education, church, and government, just as "God sets male and female side by side throughout his realm of law."

       My (Ginny Smithson's) grandmother was born October 24, 1884 in Maine.  She was named Frances Willard Lyons in honor of this famous suffragist about whom my husband, Charlies's, 2nd great-grandmother wrote this poem.

Information:        

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frances_Willard.

Picture:      

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frances_Willard#/media/File:Frances_Willard.jpg

AIR – “Old North State” 

Greensboro, North Carolina 

From the hills of the west, where the sunset is streaming, 

To the shores of the sea, where the white waves are gleaming, 

From valley and prairie, from mountain and river, 

Our banner shall float “Prohibition forever.” 

CHORUS  

Hurrah, hurrah! 

Prohibition forever 

Hurrah, hurrah! 

In the good Old North State. 

Her daughters shall sing in accents of glory, 

The triumph of right from the mountain tops hoary, 

An echo shall sound like the ocean shell, ever, 

From the land of the sky, “Prohibition forever!” 

CHORUS  

Hurrah, hurrah! 

Prohibition forever 

Hurrah, hurrah! 

In the good Old North State. 

Hurrah for the land where each caste and condition, 

May stand for the right, may vote Prohibition, 

Hurrah for our union, whose ties none can sever, 

Hurrah for our flag, “Prohibition forever!” 

CHORUS  

Hurrah, hurrah! 

Prohibition forever 

Hurrah, hurrah! 

In the good Old North State. 

E. D. Hundley  

Greensboro, North Carolina

The song known as "The Old North State" was adopted as the official song of the State of North Carolina by the General Assembly of 1927.  

(Public Laws, 1927, c. 26; G.S. 149-1)