Poems were written in the civil war by many people whether they were fighting or not. They were written by soldiers to tell about the battles and their free time. They were written about the generals and the politics. Poems emphasized what life was like during the war. Below are just a few examples of poetry written during the war.
O Captain!
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rack, 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, Where 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 swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here 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
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rack, 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, Where 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 swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here 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
Shiloh, A Requiem
Skimming lightly, wheeling still, The swallows fly low Over the fields in cloudy days, The forest-field of Shiloh-- Over the field where April rain Solaced the parched one stretched in pain Through the pause of night That followed the Sunday fight Around the church of Shiloh-- The church, so lone, the log-built one, That echoed to many a parting groan And natural prayer Of dying foeman mingled there-- Foeman at morn, but friends at eve-- Fame or country least their care: (What like a bullet can undeceive!) But now they lie low, While over them the swallows skim, And all is hushed at Shiloh.
Skimming lightly, wheeling still, The swallows fly low Over the fields in cloudy days, The forest-field of Shiloh-- Over the field where April rain Solaced the parched one stretched in pain Through the pause of night That followed the Sunday fight Around the church of Shiloh-- The church, so lone, the log-built one, That echoed to many a parting groan And natural prayer Of dying foeman mingled there-- Foeman at morn, but friends at eve-- Fame or country least their care: (What like a bullet can undeceive!) But now they lie low, While over them the swallows skim, And all is hushed at Shiloh.
The Soldier's Grave
Breathe not a whisper here; The place where thou dost stand is hallowed ground; In silence gather near this upheaved mound - Around the soldier's bier. Here Liberty may weep, And Freedom pause in her unchecked career, To pay the sacred tribute of a tear O'er the pale warrior's sleep. That arm now cold in death, But late on glory's field triumphant bore Our country's flag; that marble brow once bore The victor's fadeless wreath. Rest soldier, sweetly rest; Affection's gentle hand shall deck thy tomb With flowers and chaplets of unfading bloom Be laid upon thy breast.
Breathe not a whisper here; The place where thou dost stand is hallowed ground; In silence gather near this upheaved mound - Around the soldier's bier. Here Liberty may weep, And Freedom pause in her unchecked career, To pay the sacred tribute of a tear O'er the pale warrior's sleep. That arm now cold in death, But late on glory's field triumphant bore Our country's flag; that marble brow once bore The victor's fadeless wreath. Rest soldier, sweetly rest; Affection's gentle hand shall deck thy tomb With flowers and chaplets of unfading bloom Be laid upon thy breast.
The Copperheads
Who are the men that clamor most Against the war, its cause and cost, And who Jeff Davis sometimes toast? The Copperheads. Who, when by wretched whiskey tight, Hiss out in rage their venomed spite, Who crawl and sting, but never fight? The Copperheads. Who hold peace meetings, where they pass Lengthy resolves of wind and gas, Much like the bray of Balaam's ass? The Copperheads. Who, when false faction is forgot, When patriots keep a common thought, Have discord and dissension taught? The Copperheads. Who swear by bondage, and would see Rather their country lost than free, Who dread the name of Liberty? The Copperheads. Who hate a freedom-loving press, The truth, and all who it profess, Who don't believe in our success? The Copperheads. And who, when Right has won the day, Will take their slimy selves away, And in their dirty holes will stay? The Copperheads. And who will be the hiss and scorn Of generations yet unborn, Hated, despised, disgraced, forlorn? The Copperheads.
Who are the men that clamor most Against the war, its cause and cost, And who Jeff Davis sometimes toast? The Copperheads. Who, when by wretched whiskey tight, Hiss out in rage their venomed spite, Who crawl and sting, but never fight? The Copperheads. Who hold peace meetings, where they pass Lengthy resolves of wind and gas, Much like the bray of Balaam's ass? The Copperheads. Who, when false faction is forgot, When patriots keep a common thought, Have discord and dissension taught? The Copperheads. Who swear by bondage, and would see Rather their country lost than free, Who dread the name of Liberty? The Copperheads. Who hate a freedom-loving press, The truth, and all who it profess, Who don't believe in our success? The Copperheads. And who, when Right has won the day, Will take their slimy selves away, And in their dirty holes will stay? The Copperheads. And who will be the hiss and scorn Of generations yet unborn, Hated, despised, disgraced, forlorn? The Copperheads.