Personal Love Poems Written by Confederate Soldiers

Joined
Nov 26, 2016
Location
central NC

ASBarksdale.jpg

Cased ambrotype portrait of C.S.A. Corporal Anthony Sydnor Barksdale (1841-1923), taken 1861 with Mississippi rifle. Courtesy of CMLS.
The South was very much a verbal culture at the time of the Civil War. There was great disparity in education as was reflected in the writing ability of the common Confederate soldier. Private Jesse Hill bemoaned this in a letter to his wife confessing, “I could tel it better than I can rite.” (1864 February 5).

While the Civil War was immortalized in countless famous poems by famous poets like Howe, Whitman and Timrod, Confederate soldiers wrote poetry too. Many of their poems can be found in the Confederate Memorial Literary Society Manuscript Collections (CMLS) managed by the Virginia Museum of History and Culture. These intimate, personal love poems were written by common soldiers to their wives, families, and sweethearts.

I think these poems can provide a window into a soldier’s life on the frontlines. When read from this perspective they are as remarkable as the writings of the Poet Laureate of the Confederacy. I hope you will enjoy taking a glimpse through the poems that follow.

The poem below was included in a letter written by Corporal Anthony Sydnor Barksdale (pictured above) of Halifax County, Virginia. Corporal Barksdale fought in Company G of the 14th Virginia Infantry and later in the 1st Virginia Artillery. He mailed this poem to his sister Elizabeth “Bettie” Armistead Barksdale on September 1, 1863, thanking her for flowers she had given him.

The bouquet of flowers thou gavest to me
I’ll keep to the last in remembrance of thee
Its beauty may wither, its fragrance depart
But the donor shall not cease to live in this heart.

I can not believe them who so often tell
Of friendship that’s riven by absence strong spell
Ah, no it would cheer us in life’s latest even
And grow brighter and fairer in the lap of heaven.

Yes, Lady the posey though now pale and dead,
Its leaflets all withered, its fragrance all fled
Shall often renew as upon them I gaze,
The mem’ry of holy and simpler days.

As precious will seem each remembrance of me
As the dew to the flower, the bud to the bee;
Deep hid shall they lie in my heart’s inmost shrine
Unfadingly bright, aye forever divine.

A soldier boy’s fate takes me far from my home
From those that I love, the land where I roam,
I’ll keep the sweet flowers, and will not repine.
Ah, no, for they’ll whisper the off’ring was thine.





Sources:
Marius, Richard. The Columbia Book of Civil War Poetry. Columbia University Press, 1994.
Steinmetz, Lee. The Poetry of the American Civil War. Michigan State University Press, 1960.
 
This poem was written by Lieutenant Seth Wallace Cobb of Jerusalem, Virginia. He fought in Company A of the 18th Virginia Heavy Artillery Battalion. He mailed this poem to his sweetheart Victoria Farrar on October 14, 1863.

I am thinking of thee in this twilight hour
And I’m lonely weary and sad,
For the day is done and the night has come
And there’s nothing to make me glad.


I am thinking of thee and I almost start
And fancy that though are near
But a sigh will rise to my anguished heart,
Like an echo of wild despair.


I am thinking of thee as I sit here alone,
And ponder on days that’s past
And they’ve flown away – like a summer day
Too bright and too happy to last.


I am thinking of thee and I long to sit
By thy couch of sickness and pain
And smooth thy pillow, and press thy hand
And make thee well again.


I am thinking of thee – Oh! Would I could share
Thy every ill on earth
And love thee so fondly that sorrow and care
Should fly at their earliest birth.


I am thinking of thee, canst thou doubt [illegible]
Or wonder that I am sad,
For thou art my all, and the tears will fall
For there’s nothing to make me glad.


I am thinking of thee and I long to press
Thy fevered hand in mine
And ask thee if love more true and warm
Has ever been known than mine.



Lieutenant Cobb did not marry Victoria Farrar. He married socialite, Zoe Cynthian Desloge. :frown:
 
I think this verbal tradition from the antebellum South is one reason that so many great storytellers are from this portion of America. While great prose and poetry have come from all sections of the United States, when I think about men sitting around a cracker barrel or at a barber shop swapping tales and yarns, the South comes to mind. Many of my friends when they give an answer to a question or bring up a fact can't stop there, they always have to tell the obligatory story to go along with it.
 
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Captain Alfred English Doby (Find A Grave)

This third poem is by Captain Alfred English Doby of Camden, South Carolina. Captain Doby fought in the 2nd South Carolina Infantry and mailed this poem to his wife Elizabeth on January 22, 1863. The poem is about Elizabeth’s letters to him, which he burns after reading. So sad! Captain Doby died at the Battle of the Wilderness. Elizabeth lived to the age of 76 and never remarried. She passed away at their daughter's home in South Carolina in 1917.

Farewell, sweet messengers of Love,
Thy heaven-like mission’s filled
On my heart thy sweet words are left
In my bosom, joy instilled.
Thoux must perish in the flame,
A sacrifice to Love’s demands,
For should the vandal in this strife
Stand o’er my body slain
He ne’er shall touch the sacred page
Or coarsely mock affection’s name.


I am so thankful the Virginia Museum of History is preserving these poems through the Culture Confederate Memorial Literary Society Manuscript Collections (CMLS). They have a wonderful website if anyone is interested in learning more.
 
Great form of expression and some lovely shares.

I think I would have the opposite reaction to burning a letter, but the poem says it all. To have a letter fall into the hands of an enemy, and for them to make a mockery of it when it was the closest thing to your heart ... definitely torn over this sentiment, and wonder how many thought to do the same? I think part of my reaction comes from the fact it's not 'intelligence', and therefore can't be used as part of the war effort. It is personal. And he's imagining he won't be there and the letters will be taken from his body. He obviously can't think of anything worse than someone 'mishandling' his love and what that represents to him. Which is everything. It is 'sacred'.
 
He obviously can't think of anything worse than someone 'mishandling' his love and what that represents to him.

This was heartbreaking Deb. I always thought of Civil War soldiers as keeping letters from home and rereading them over and over since they were usually far and few between. I certainly understand Captain Doby's sentiment, but his reference to burning letters is the first I have seen. Can you imagine how hard it must have been for him to watch a letter from his wife burn?
 
I always thought of Civil War soldiers as keeping letters from home and rereading them over and over since they were usually far and few between.
That is my impression, too. And, no, I can't imagine how hard that must have been for him. Making the choice to do it might have made it somewhat easier, as in while he still had a choice that was his preference. But, I'm sure there were days it tore his heart out to do that.
 
I've read that the Union Army had a post office near forts and camps where the men could purchase stamps and mail their letters and that organizations such as the U.S. Christian Commission and U.S. Sanitary Commission gave out free paper and envelopes to Union soldiers. The U.S. Mail Service announced in 1864 that Union soldiers could send their letters home for free as long as they wrote "Soldier's Letter" on the outside of the envelope. Sadly, Confederate soldiers never had such a luxury. The shortages of paper, stamps, and even writing utensils became extreme in the South as the war went on and it was often left up to the Confederates to find writing paper. Some resorted to taking stationary from Union prisoners.
 
This is from one of my Captain's letters, written at Haxall's Landing in Virginia in 1864, and added as a PS:

"P.S. You will have to pay three cents for this letter. As I haven't a postage stamp & none of my friends are the happy possessors of such commodities. Excuse if you must as there is no help for it."
 
A soldier boy’s fate takes me far from my home
From those that I love, the land where I roam,
I’ll keep the sweet flowers, and will not repine.
Ah, no, for they’ll whisper the off’ring was thine.

What beautiful, tender words! Yes, the South was a very verbal culture before the War. The men were as prone to break into odes and sonnets to entertain guests, as their women would in song.
 
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