A Southern Poetry Primer:The Antebellum Poets

The South and its people have a long history of poetry and literary pursuits. Even prior to the War of Northern Aggression which devastated the Southern lands, its people often read works by Walter Scott, emphasised good manners and attempted living a lifestyle of chivalry. Not everyone in the South was able to live such a lifestyle, yet Southern society valued the code of chivalry and developed its own Southern branch of chivalry. As part of this idealization of chivalry, southern writers found a voice expressing these ideals.

The South held on to the idea that a man’s word was his bond, that manners are important with titles like ‘mam’ and ‘sir’ having a place in society. The men still often open doors for ladies, and across the South in small towns, you still see a respect for the dead. People still pull over for funerals and show respect regardless of race, gender or creed. Although these are remnants of the chivalric culture that once existed, writers from the 19^th century recognized it, referring to the South as the “land of legend and song”.

In the aftermath of the war, the hopeful chivalry turned dark. The writers expressed a depth of pain and the struggle of coming to grips with it. This struggle is still seen today in some Southern writing. A quote by Southern writer Flannery O’Conner expresses it well.

“Whenever I'm asked why Southern writers particularly have a penchant for writing about freaks, I say it is because we are still able to recognize one.”

--Flannery O'Connor

Some of the more noted poets of the old South include Sidney Lanier, Henry Timrod, Father Ryan and Albert Pike.

Father Ryan was a Catholic priest from Virginia with a notable writing talent. One of his most famous works is the Conquered Banner. Ryan wrote this poem on hearing of the surrender of Robert E. Lee.

The Conquered Banner

Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary;

Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary;

Furl it, fold it, it is best;

For there's not a man to wave it,

And there's not a sword to save it,

And there's not one left ot lave it

In the blood which heroes gave it;

And its foes now scorn and brave it;

Furl it, hide it --let it rest!

Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered;

Broken is its staff and shattered;

And the valiant hosts are scattered

Over whom it floated high.

Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it;

Hard to think there's non to hold it;

Hard that those who once unrolled it

Now must furl it with a sigh.

Furl that Banner! furl it sadly!

Once ten thousands hailed it gladly,

And ten thousands wildly, madly,

Swore it should forever wave;

Swore that foeman's sword should never

Hearts like theirs entwined dissever,

Till that flag should float forever

O'er their freedom or their grave!

Furl it! for the hands that grasped it,

And the hearts that fondly clasped it,

Cold and dead are lying low;

And that banner --it is trailing!

While around it sounds the wailing

Of its people in their woe.

For, though conquered, they adore it!

Love the cold, dead hands that bore it!

Weep for those who fell before it!

Pardon those who trailed and tore it!

But, oh! wildly they deplore it,

Now who furl and fold it so.

Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory,

Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory,

And 'twill live in song and story,

Though its folds are in the dust:

For its fame on brightest pages,

Penned by poets and by sages,

Shall go sounding down the ages--

Furl its folds though now we must.

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly!

Treat it gently --it is holy--

For it droops above the dead.

Touch it not --unfold it never,

Let it droop there, furled forever,

For its people's hopes are dead!

Another talented Southern poet was South Carolina’s Henry Timrod. During the war, he served as a correspondent for the local newspaper. During the course of the war, he experienced emotional devastation with his home was destroyed and his child dying. An acquaintance of his rescued his works and preserved many of them.

1866-Addressed To The Old Year

Art thou not glad to close

Thy wearied eyes, O saddest child of Time,

Eyes which have looked on every mortal crime,

And swept the piteous round of mortal woes?

In dark Plutonian caves,

Beneath the lowest deep, go, hide thy head;

Or earth thee where the blood that thou hast shed

May trickle on thee from thy countless graves!

Take with thee all thy gloom

And guilt, and all our griefs, save what the breast,

Without a wrong to some dear shadowy guest,

May not surrender even to the tomb.

No tear shall weep thy fall,

When, as the midnight bell doth toll thy fate,

Another lifts the sceptre of thy state,

And sits a monarch in thine ancient hall.

HIM all the hours attend,

With a new hope like morning in their eyes;

Him the fair earth and him these radiant skies

Hail as their sovereign, welcome as their friend.

Him, too, the nations wait;

"O lead us from the shadow of the Past,"

In a long wail like this December blast,

They cry, and, crying, grow less desolate.

How he will shape his sway

They ask not -- for old doubts and fears will cling --

And yet they trust that, somehow, he will bring

A sweeter sunshine than thy mildest day.

Beneath his gentle hand

They hope to see no meadow, vale, or hill

Stained with a deeper red than roses spill,

When some too boisterous zephyr sweeps the land.

A time of peaceful prayer,

Of law, love, labor, honest loss and gain --

These are the visions of the coming reign

Now floating to them on this wintry air.

Sidney Lanier was another of the accomplished Southern poets. Born in Georgia, he graduated first in his class from Oglethorpe University. During the war, he served in the signal corps and later on blockade runners. During the war, he was captured and taken to a prison camp where he contracted TB. His bout with TB was a struggle that continued through the rest of his life.

A Song of the Future

Sail fast, sail fast,

Ark of my hopes, Ark of my dreams;

Sweep lordly o'er the drowned Past,

Fly glittering through the sun's strange beams;

Sail fast, sail fast.

Breaths of new buds from off some drying lea

With news about the Future scent the sea:

My brain is beating like the heart of Haste:

I'll loose me a bird upon this Present waste;

Go, trembling song,

And stay not long; oh, stay not long:

Thou'rt only a gray and sober dove,

But thine eye is faith and thy wing is love.