Monterey

They were not many—they who wrought 
Their deeds of shame too dark for thought, 
     On desperate rapine bent that day,—
The hordes who warred for negro-chains, 
And marked with spattered blood and brains 
     The conquered towers of Monterey.

They drove War's ploughshare, beamed with fire,
Through clogging limbs and gore-thick mire,
     To build oppression's red highway:
Arms dripping with the husband's life, 
Clung, spoiling, round, the shrieking wife, 
     In the thronged streets of Monterey!

Love's Bower was track'd with footsteps fresh 
From the torn Lover's jellied flesh, 
     Who kept hot ruin long at bay;
Pale sunk the Sister's ravished form 
In blood of Brothers, yet life-warm, 
     Who fought for her, and Monterey.

Blent wail, and curse, and murder-cry,
As raking ball and bomb went by
     Through homes where Babes and Mothers lay;
And plighted faith and honor fell, 
Like blossoms in the breath of Hell, 
     Before the foes of Monterey.

An ‘Angel’ on that field accursed 
Bore water for their burning thirst
     Who bled from ball and sabre sway;
The hungry death-shot pluck'd her charms
To crown the glory of our arms,
     On the won heights of Monterey!

They were not many—they who fought;
Yet oh, how deep a shame they wrought 
     For millions, murder-stained as they—
Who, bound to Slavery's victor-car, 
Urged on her bandit-hordes to war, 
     And waste the homes of Monterey.