Unknown
The following lines were written in the summer of 1864, immediately after
the charge referred to in them, which was always considered by the brigade
as their most desperate encounter.
Scarce seven hundred men they stand
In tattered, rude array,
A remnant of that gallant band,
Who erstwhile held the sea-girt strand
Of Morris’ isle, with iron hand
‘Gainst Yankees’ hated sway.
SECESSIONVILLE their banner claims,
And SUMTER, held ‘mid smoke and flames,
And the dark battle on the streams
Of POCOTALIGO:
And WALTHALL’S JUNCTION’S hard-earned fight,
And DREWRY’S BLUFF’S embattled height,
Whence, at the gray dawn of the light,
They rushed upon the foe.
Tattered and torn those banners now,
But not less proud each lofty brow,
Untaught as yet to yield:
With mien unblenched, unfaltering eye,
Forward, where bombshells shrieking fly
Flecking with smoke the azure sky
On Weldon’s fated field.
Sweeps from the woods the bold array,
Not theirs to falter in the fray,
No men more sternly trained than they
To meet their deadly doom:
While, from a hundred throats agape,
A hundred sulphurous flames escape,
Round shot, and canister, and grape,
The thundering cannon’s boom!
Swift, on their flank, with fearful crash
Shrapnel and ball commingling clash,
And bursting shells, with lurid flash,
Their dazzled sight confound:
Trembles the earth beneath their feet,
Along their front a rattling sheet
Of leaden hail concentric meet,
And numbers strew the ground.
On, o’er the dying and the dead,
O’er mangled limb and gory head,
With martial look, with martial tread,
March Hagood’s men to bloody bed,
Honor their sole reward;
Himself doth lead their battle line,
Himself those banners guard.
They win the height, those gallant few,
A fiercer struggle to renew,
Resolved as gallant men to do
Or sink in glory’s shroud;
But scarcely gain its stubborn crest,
Ere, from the ensign’s murdered breast,
An impious foe has dared to wrest
That banner proud.
Upon him, Hagood, in thy might!
Flash on thy soul th’ immortal light
Of those brave deeds that blazon bright
Our Southern Cross.
He dies. Unfurl its folds again,
Let it wave proudly o’er the plain;
The dying shall forget their pain,
Count not their loss.
Then, rallying to your chieftain’s call,
Ploughed through by cannon-shot and ball
Hemmed in, as by a living wall,
Cleave back your way.
Those bannered deeds their souls inspire,
Borne, amid sheets of forkéd fire,
By the Two Hundred who retire
Of that array.
Ah, Carolina! well the tear
May dew thy cheek; thy clasped hands rear
In passion, o’er their tombless bier,
Thy fallen chivalry!
Malony, mirror of the brave,
And Sellers lie in glorious grave;
No prouder fate than theirs, who gave
Their lives for Liberty.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem is built out of memory and pride rather than reflection or doubt. It speaks from inside the brigade it describes, and that closeness shapes everything about how the charge is remembered. The opening image of fewer than seven hundred men immediately frames the scene as one of survival and reduction. These are not fresh troops but remnants, marked by earlier fights and already worn down. The poem wants the reader to see endurance before bravery, history before action.
The long list of previous battles functions like a roll call. Secessionville, Sumter, Pocotaligo, Walthall’s Junction, Drewry’s Bluff—each name stands in for blood already spent. There is no explanation of what happened in those places because none is needed for the intended audience. The effect is cumulative. By the time the men move forward at Weldon’s field, they carry a weight of past fighting that makes this charge feel like the continuation of a long ordeal rather than a single dramatic moment.
The poem’s language stays focused on movement under fire. The advance is described with steady pressure rather than speed or excitement. The men do not rush; they “sweep” and “march,” even as shells burst and the ground shakes. This choice matters. It reinforces the idea of discipline and grim resolve rather than reckless courage. Death is constant, but it is treated as expected terrain, something to be crossed over rather than reacted to.
The center of the poem turns on the banners and on Hagood himself. Leadership here is physical and visible. Hagood guards the colors, leads from the front, and personally responds when the banner is seized. The enemy who grabs it is killed almost instantly, and the act is framed as both sacrilege and challenge. The banner is more than cloth; it holds the accumulated meaning of earlier fights and losses. When the dying forget their pain at its unfurling, the poem makes clear that symbols are doing emotional work that flesh and bone can no longer do.
What stands out is how the poem narrows its focus after the height is taken. Victory is partial and costly. Only two hundred retire from the charge, a number that quietly undercuts any sense of triumph. There is no celebration, no clear turning point in the war. Instead, the poem settles into mourning, addressing Carolina directly and naming the dead. The closing lines do not argue that the loss changed the war or secured the future. They argue that the manner of dying was enough.
Throughout, the poem refuses irony or distance. It does not question whether the charge was necessary or wise. It measures success in honor, not outcome. That makes it a strong example of brigade-level war poetry, where the goal is not to explain the war but to preserve a shared version of what happened and why it mattered. The emphasis on banners, named leaders, and named dead turns the poem into a kind of memorial in verse, meant to be read by those who already know the cost and want it remembered in a specific way.