We'll hunt for Lincoln, Bess! old tool, And take him half and half; We'll aim to hit him, if a fool, And miss him, if a calf!

We'll teach these shot-gun boys the tricks By which a war is won; Especially how Seventy-six Took Tories on the run.



Battle Hymn.

Charleston Mercury.



Lord of Hosts, that beholds us in battle, defending The homes of our sires 'gainst the hosts of the foe, Send us help on the wings of thy angels descending, And shield from his terrors, and baffle his blow. Warm the faith of our sons, till they flame as the iron, Red-glowing from the fire-forge, kindled by zeal; Make them forward to grapple the hordes that environ, In the storm-rush of battle, through forests of steel!

Teach them, Lord, that the cause of their country makes glorious The martyr who falls in the front of the fight;— That the faith which is steadfast makes ever victorious The arm which strikes boldly defending the right;— That the zeal, which is roused by the wrongs of a nation, Is a war-horse that sweeps o'er the field as his own; And the Faith, which is winged by the soul's approbation, Is a warrior, in proof, that can ne'er be o'erthrown.



Kentucky, She Is Sold

By J. R. Barrick, of Kentucky.



A tear for "the dark and bloody ground," For the land of hills and caves; Her Kentons, Boones, and her Shelbys sleep Where the vandals tread their graves; A sigh for the loss of her honored fame, Dear won in the days of old; Her ship is manned by a foreign crew, For Kentucky, she is sold.

The bones of her sons lie bleaching on The plains of Tippecanoe, On the field of Raisin her blood was shed, As free as the summer's dew; In Mexico her McRee and Clay Were first of the brave and bold— A change has been in her bosom wrought, For Kentucky, she is sold.

Pride of the free, was that noble State, And her banner still were so, Had the iron heel of the despot not Her prowess sunk so low; Her valleys once were the freeman's home, Her valor unbought with gold, But now the pride of her life is fled, For Kentucky, she is sold.

Her brave would once have scorned to wear The yoke that crushes her now, And the tyrant grasp, and the vandal tread, Would sullen have made her brow; Her spirit yet will be wakened up, And her saddened fate be told, Her gallant sons to the world yet prove That Kentucky is not sold.



Sonnet—The Ship of State.



Here lie the peril and necessity That need a race of giants—a great realm, With not one noble leader at the helm; And the great Ship of State still driving high, 'Midst breakers, on a lee shore—to the rocks. With ever and anon most terrible shocks— The crew aghast, and fear in every eye. Yet is the gracious Providence still nigh; And, if our cause be just, our hearts be true, We shall save goodly ship and gallant crew, Nor suffer shipwreck of our liberty! It needs that as a people we arise, With solemn purpose that even fate defies, And brave all perils with unblenching eye!

Charleston Mercury.



"In His Blanket on the Ground."

By Caroline H. Gervais, Charleston.



Weary, weary lies the soldier, In his blanket on the ground With no sweet "Good-night" to cheer him, And no tender voice's sound, Making music in the darkness, Making light his toilsome hours, Like a sunbeam in the forest, Or a tomb wreathed o'er with flowers.

Thoughtful, hushed, he lies, and tearful, As his memories sadly roam To the "cozy little parlor" And the loved ones of his home; And his waking and his dreaming Softly braid themselves in one, As the twilight is the mingling Of the starlight and the sun.

And when sleep descends upon him, Still his thought within his dream Is of home, and friends, and loved ones, And his busy fancies seem To be real, as they wander To his mother's cherished form. As she gently said, in parting "Thine in sunshine and in storm: Thine in helpless childhood's morning, And in boyhood's joyous time, Thou must leave me now—God watch thee In thy manhood's ripened prime."

Or, mayhap, amid the phantoms Teeming thick within his brain, His dear father's locks, o'er-silvered, Come to greet his view again; And he hears his trembling accents, Like a clarion ringing high, "Since not mine are youth and strength, boy, Thou must victor prove, or die."

Or perchance he hears a whisper Of the faintest, faintest sigh, Something deeper than word-spoken, Something breathing of a tie Near his soul as bounding heart-blood: It is hers, that patient wife— And again that parting seemeth Like the taking leave of life: And her last kiss he remembers, And the agonizing thrill, And the "Must you go?" and answer, "I but know my Country's will."

Or the little children gather, Half in wonder, round his knees; And the faithful dog, mute, watchful, In the mystic glass he sees; And the voice of song, and pictures, And the simplest homestead flowers, Unforgotten, crowd before him In the solemn midnight hours.

Then his thoughts in Dreamland wander To a sister's sweet caress, And he feels her dear lips quiver As his own they fondly press; And he hears her proudly saying, (Though sad tears are in her eyes), "Brave men fall, but live in story, For the Hero never dies!"

Or, perhaps, his brown cheek flushes, And his heart beats quicker now, As he thinks of one who gave him, Him, the loved one, love's sweet vow; And, ah, fondly he remembers He is still her dearest care, Even in his star-watched slumber That she pleads for him in prayer.

Oh, the soldier will be dreaming, Dreaming often of us all, (When the damp earth is his pillow, And the snow and cold sleet fall), Of the dear, familiar faces, Of the cozy, curtained room, Of the flitting of the shadows In the twilight's pensive gloom.

Or when summer suns burn o'er him, Bringing drought and dread disease, And the throes of wasting fever Come his weary frame to seize— In the restless sleep of sickness, Doomed, perchance, to martyr death, Hear him whisper "Home"—sweet cadence, With his quickened, labored breath.

Then God bless him, bless the soldier, And God nerve him for the fight; May He lend his arm new prowess To do battle for the right. Let him feel that while he's dreaming In his fitful slumber bound, That we're praying—God watch o'er him In his blanket on the ground.



The Mountain Partisan.



I.

My rifle, pouch, and knife! My steed! And then we part! One loving kiss, dear wife, One press of heart to heart! Cling to me yet awhile, But stay the sob, the tear! Smile—only try to smile— And I go without a fear.



II.

Our little cradled boy, He sleeps—and in his sleep, Smiles, with an angel joy, Which tells thee not to weep. I'll kneel beside, and kiss— He will not wake the while, Thus dreaming of the bliss, That bids thee, too, to smile.



III.

Think not, dear wife, I go, With a light thought at my heart 'Tis a pang akin to woe, That fills me as we part; But when the wolf was heard To howl around our lot, Thou know'st, dear mother-bird, I slew him on the spot!



IV.

Aye, panther, wolf, and bear, Have perish'd 'neath my knife; Why tremble, then, with fear, When now I go, my wife? Shall I not keep the peace, That made our cottage dear; And 'till these wolf-curs cease Shall I be housing here?



V.

One loving kiss, dear wife, One press of heart to heart; Then for the deadliest strife, For freedom I depart! I were of little worth, Were these Yankee wolves left free To ravage 'round our hearth, And bring one grief to thee!



VI.

God's blessing on thee, wife, God's blessing on the young: Pray for me through the strife, And teach our infant's tongue. Whatever haps in fight, I shall be true to thee— To the home of our delight— To my people of the free.



The Cameo Bracelet.

By James R. Randall, of Maryland.



Eva sits on the ottoman there, Sits by a Psyche carved in stone, With just such a face, and just such an air, As Esther upon her throne.

She's sifting lint for the brave who bleed, And I watch her fingers float and flow Over the linen, as, thread by thread, It flakes to her lap like snow.

A bracelet clinks on her delicate wrist, Wrought, as Cellini's were at Rome, Out of the tears of the amethyst, And the wan Vesuvian foam.

And full on the bauble-crest alway— A cameo image keen and fine— Glares thy impetuous knife, Corday, And the lava-locks are thine!

I thought of the war-wolves on our trail, Their gaunt fangs sluiced with gouts of blood; Till the Past, in a dead, mesmeric veil, Drooped with a wizard flood

Till the surly blaze through the iron bars Shot to the hearth with a pang and cry— And a lank howl plunged from the Champ de Mars To the Column of July—

Till Corday sprang from the gem, I swear, And the dove-eyed damsel I knew had flown— For Eva was not on the ottoman there, By the Psyche carved in stone.

She grew like a Pythoness flushed with fate, With the incantation in her gaze, A lip of scorn—an arm of hate— And a dirge of the "Marseillaise!"

Eva, the vision was not wild, When wreaked on the tyrants of the land— For you were transfigured to Nemesis, child, With the dagger in your hand!



Zollicoffer.

By H. L. Flash, of Alabama.



First in the fight, and first in the arms Of the white-winged angels of glory, With the heart of the South at the feet of God, And his wounds to tell the story:

And the blood that flowed from his hero heart, On the spot where he nobly perished, Was drunk by the earth as a sacrament In the holy cause he cherished.

In Heaven a home with the brave and blessed, And, for his soul's sustaining, The apocalyptic eyes of Christ— And nothing on earth remaining,

But a handful of dust in the land of his choice, A name in song and story, And Fame to shout with her brazen voice, "Died on the Field of Glory!"



Beauregard

By Catharine A. Warfield, of Mississippi.



Let the trumpet shout once more, Beauregard! Let the battle-thunders roar, Beauregard! And again by yonder sea, Let the swords of all the free Leap forth to fight with thee, Beauregard!

Old Sumter loves thy name, Beauregard! Grim Moultrie guards thy fame, Beauregard! Oh! first in Freedom's fight! Oh! steadfast in the right! Oh! brave and Christian Knight! Beauregard!

St. Michael with his host, Beauregard! Encamps by yonder coast, Beauregard! And the Demon's might shall quail, And the Dragon's terrors fail, Were he trebly clad in mail, Beauregard!

Not a leaf shall fall away, Beauregard! From the laurel won to-day, Beauregard! While the ocean breezes blow, While the billows lapse and flow O'er the Northman's bones below, Beauregard!

Let the trumpet shout once more, Beauregard! Let the battle-thunders roar, Beauregard! From the centre to the shore, From the sea to the land's core Thrills the echo, evermore, Beauregard!



South Carolina.



1719. Colonial Revolution. 1763. Colonial History—Progress, 1776. American Revolution. 1812-15. Second War with Great Britain 1830-32. Nullification for State Rights. 1835-40. Florida War. 1847. Mexican War—Palmetto Regiment. 1860-61. Secession, and Third War for Independence.

My brave old Country! I have watched thee long Still ever first to rise against the wrong; To check the usurper in his giant stride, And brave his terrors and abase his pride; Foresee the insidious danger ere it rise, And warn the heedless and inform the wise; Scorning the lure, the bribe, the selfish game, Which, through the office, still becomes the shame; Thou stood'st aloof—superior to the fate That would have wrecked thy freedom as a State. In vain the despot's threat, his cunning lure; Too proud thy spirit, and thy heart too pure; Thou hadst no quest but freedom, and to be In conscience well-assured, and people free. The statesman's lore was thine, the patriot's aim, These kept thee virtuous, and preserved thy fame; The wisdom still for council, the brave voice, That thrills a people till they all rejoice. These were thy birthrights; and two centuries pass'd, As, at the first, still find thee at the last; Supreme in council, resolute in will, Pure in thy purpose—independent still!

The great good counsels, the examples brave, Won from the past, not buried in its grave, Still warm your soul with courage—still impar Wisdom to virtue, valor to the heart! Still first to check th' encroachment—to declare "Thus far! no further, shall the assailant dare;" Thou keep'st thy ermine white, thy State secure, Thy fortunes prosperous, and thy freedom sure; No glozing art deceives thee to thy bane; The tempter and the usurper strive in vain! Thy spear's first touch unfolds the fiendish form, And first, with fearless breast, thou meet'st the storm; Though hosts assail thee, thou thyself a host, Prepar'st to meet the invader on the coast: Thy generous sons contending which shall be First in the phalanx, gathering by the sea; No dastard fear appals them, as they teach How best to hurl the bolt, or man the breach!

Great Soul in little frame!—the hope of man Exults, when such as thou art in the van! Unshaken, unbeguiled, unslaved, unbought, Thy fame shall brighten with each battle fought; True to the examples of the past, thou'lt be, For the long future, best security.

Charleston Mercury.

Gossypium.



Carolina.

By Henry Timrod.



I.

The despot treads thy sacred sands, Thy pines give shelter to his bands, Thy sons stand by with idle hands, Carolina! He breathes at ease thy airs of balm, He scorns the lances of thy palm; Oh I who shall break thy craven calm, Carolina! Thy ancient fame is growing dim, A spot is on thy garment's rim; Give to the winds thy battle hymn, Carolina!



II.

Call on thy children of the hill, Wake swamp and river, coast and rill, Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill, Carolina! Cite wealth and science, trade and art, Touch with thy fire the cautious mart, And pour thee through the people's heart, Carolina! Till even the coward spurns his fears, And all thy fields, and fens, and meres, Shall bristle like thy palm, with spears, Carolina!



III.

Hold up the glories of thy dead; Say how thy elder children bled, Arid point to Eutaw's battle-bed, Carolina! Tell how the patriot's soul was tried, And what his dauntless breast defied; How Rutledge ruled, and Laurens died, Carolina! Cry! till thy summons, heard at last, Shall fall, like Marion's bugle-blast, Re-echoed from the haunted past, Carolina!



IV.

I hear a murmur, as of waves That grope their way through sunless caves, Like bodies struggling in their graves, Carolina! And now it deepens; slow and grand It swells, as rolling to the land An ocean broke upon the strand, Carolina! Shout! let it reach the startled Huns! And roar with all thy festal guns! It is the answer of thy sons, Carolina!



V.

They will not wait to hear thee call; From Sachem's head to Sumter's wall Resounds the voice of hut and hall, Carolina! No! thou hast not a stain, they say, Or none save what the battle-day Shall wash in seas of blood away, Carolina! Thy skirts, indeed, the foe may part, Thy robe be pierced with sword and dart, They shall not touch thy noble heart, Carolina!



VI.

Ere thou shalt own the tyrant's thrall, Ten times ten thousand men must fall; Thy corpse may hearken to his call, Carolina! When by thy bier, in mournful throngs, The women chant thy mortal wrongs, 'Twill be their own funereal songs, Carolina! From thy dead breast, by ruffians trod, No helpless child shall look to God; All shall be safe beneath thy sod, Carolina!



VII.

Girt with such wills to do and bear, Assured in right, and mailed in prayer, Thou wilt not bow thee to despair, Carolina! Throw thy bold banner to the breeze! Front with thy ranks the threatening seas, Like thine own proud armorial trees, Carolina! Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns, And roar the challenge from thy guns; Then leave the future to thy sons, Carolina!



My Mother-Land.

By Paul H. Hayne.



"Animis, Opibusque Parati."

My Mother-land! thou wert the first to fling Thy virgin flag of freedom to the breeze, The first to humble, in thy neighboring seas, The imperious despot's power; But long before that hour, While yet, in false and vain imagining, Thy sister nations would not own their foe, And turned to jest thy warnings, though the low, Deep, awful mutterings, that precede the throe Of earthquakes, burdened all the ominous air; While yet they paused in scorn, Of fatal madness born,— Thou, oh, my Mother! like a priestess bless'd With wondrous vision of the things to come, Thou couldst not calmly rest Secure and dumb— But from thy borders, with the sounds of drum And trumpet, came the thrilling note, "PREPARE!" "Prepare for what?" thy careless sisters said; "We see no threatening tempest overhead, Only a few pale clouds, the west wind's breath Will sweep away, or melt in watery death."

"Prepare!" the time grows ripe to meet our doom! Alas! it was not till the thunder-boom Of shell and cannon shocked the vernal day, Which shone o'er Charleston Bay— When the tamed "Stars and Stripes" before us bowed— That startled, roused, the last scale fallen away From, blinded eyes, our SOUTH, erect and proud, Fronted the issue, and, though lulled too long, Felt her great spirit nerved, her patriot valor strong.

But darker days have found us—'gainst the horde Of robber Northmen, who, with torch and sword, Approach to desecrate The sacred hearthstone and the Temple-gate— Who would defile our fathers' graves, and cast Their ashes to the blast— Yea! who declare, "we will annihilate The very bound-lines of your sovereign State"— Against this ravening flood Of foul invaders, drunk with lust and blood, Oh! we, Strong in the strength of God-supported might, Go forth to give our foe no paltry fight, Nor basely yield To venal legions a scarce blood-dewed field— But witness, Heaven! if such the need should be, To make our fated land one vast Thermopyl!

Death! What of Death?— Can he who once drew honorable breath In liberty's pure sphere, Foster a sensual fear, When death and slavery meet him face to face, Saying: "Choose thou between us; here, the grace Which follows patriot martyrdom, and there, Black degradation, haunted by despair."

Death! What of Death?— The vilest reptiles, brutes or men, who crawl Across their portion of this earthly ball, Share life and motion with us; would we strive Like such to creep alive, Polluted, loathsome, only that with sin We still might keep our mortal breathings in?

The very thought brings blushes to the cheek! I hear all 'round about me murmurs run, Hot murmurs, but soon merging into ONE Soul-stirring utterance—hark! the people speak:

"Our course is righteous, and our aims are just! Behold, we seek Not merely to preserve for noble wives The virtuous pride of unpolluted lives, To shield our daughters from the ruffian's hand, And leave our sons their heirloom of command, In generous perpetuity of trust; Not only to defend those ancient laws, Which Saxon sturdiness and Norman fire Welded forevermore with freedom's cause, And handed scathless down from sire to sire— Nor yet, our grand religion, and our Christ, Undecked by upstart creeds and vulgar charms, (Though these had sure sufficed To urge the feeblest Sybarite to arms)— But more than all, because embracing all, Insuring all, SELF-GOVERNMENT, the boon Our patriot statesmen strove to win and keep, From prescient Pinckney and the wise Calhoun To him, that gallant Knight, The youngest champion in the Senate hall, Who, led and guarded by a luminous fate, His armor, Courage, and his war-horse, Right, Dared through the lists of eloquence to sweep Against the proud Bois Guilbert of debate![1]

"There's not a tone from out the teeming past, Uplifted once in such a cause as ours, Which does not smite our souls In long reverberating thunder-rolls, From the far mountain-steeps of ancient story. Above the shouting, furious Persian mass, Millions arrayed in pomp of Orient powers, Rings the wild war-cry of Leonidas Pent in his rugged fortress of the rock; And o'er the murmurous seas, Compact of hero-faith and patriot bliss, (For conquest crowns the Athenian's hope at last), Gome the clear accents of Miltiades, Mingled with cheers that drown the battle-shock Beside the wave-washed strand of Salamis.

"Where'er on earth the self-devoted heart Hath been by worthy deeds exalted thus, We look for proud exemplars; yet for us It is enough to know Our fathers left us freemen; let us show The will to hold our lofty heritage, The patient strength to act our fathers' part— Brothers on history's page, We wait to write our autographs in gore, To cast the morning brightness of our glory Beyond our day and hope, The narrow limit of one age's scope, On Time's remotest shore!

"Yea! though our children's blood Kain 'round us in a crimson-swelling flood, Why pause or falter?—that red tide shall bear The Ark that holds our shrined liberty, Nearer, and yet more near Some height of promise o'er the ensanguined sea.

"At last, the conflict done, The fadeless meed of final victory won— Behold! emerging from the rifted dark Athwart a shining summit high in heaven, That delegated Ark! No more to be by vengeful tempests driven, But poised upon the sacred mount, whereat The congregated nations gladly gaze, Struck by the quiet splendor of the rays That circle Freedom's blood-bought Ararat!"

Thus spake the people's wisdom; unto me Its voice hath come, a passionate augury! Methinks the very aspect of the world Changed to the mystic music of its hope. For, lo! about the deepening heavenly cope The stormy cloudland banners all are furled, And softly borne above Are brooding pinions of invisible love, Distilling balm of rest and tender thought From fairy realms, by fairy witchery wrought O'er the hushed ocean steal celestial gleams Divine as light that haunts a poet's dreams; And universal nature, wheresoever My vision strays—o'er sky, and sea, and river— Sleeps, like a happy child, In slumber undefiled, A premonition of sublimer days, When war and warlike lays At length shall cease, Before a grand Apocalypse of Peace, Vouchsafed in mercy to all human kind— A prelude and a prophecy combined!

[1]Everybody must remember the famous tournament scene in "Ivanhoe." Of course the author, in drawing a comparison between that chivalric battle and the contest upon "Foote's Resolutions" in the great Senatorial debate of 1832, would be understood as not pushing the comparison further than the first shock of arms between Bois Guilbert and his youthful opponent, which Scott tells us was the most spirited encounter of the day. Both the knights' lances were fairly broken, and they parted, with no decisive advantage on either side.



Joe Johnston.

By John R. Thompson.



Once more to the breach for the land of the West! And a leader we give of our bravest and best, Of his State and his army the pride; Hope shines like the plume of Navarre on his crest, And gleams in the glaive at his side.

For his courage is keen, and his honor is bright As the trusty Toledo[1] he wears to the fight, Newly wrought in the forges of Spain; And this weapon, like all he has brandished for right, Will never be dimmed by a stain.

He leaves the loved, soil of Virginia behind, Where the dust of his fathers is fitly enshrined, Where lie the fresh fields of his fame; Where the murmurous pines, as they sway in the wind, Seem ever to whisper his name.

The Johnstons have always borne wings on their spurs, And their motto a noble distinction confers— "Ever ready!" for friend or for foe— With a patriot's fervor the sentiment stirs The large, manly heart of our JOE.

We read that a former bold chief of the clan, Fell, bravely defending the West, in the van, On Shiloh's illustrious day; And with reason we reckon our Johnston's the man The dark, bloody debt to repay.

There is much to be done; if not glory to seek, There's a just and terrible vengeance to wreak For crimes of a terrible dye; While the plaint of the helpless, the wail of the weak, In a chorus rise up to the sky.

For the Wolf of the North we once drove to his den, That quailed with affright 'neath the stern glance of men, With his pack has returned to the spoil; Then come from the mountain, the hamlet, the glen, And drive him again from your soil.

Brave-born Tennesseeans, so loyal, so true, Who have hunted the beast in your highlands, of you Our leader had never a doubt; You will troop by the thousand the chase to renew, The day that his bugles ring out.

But ye "Hunters," so famed, "of Kentucky" of yore, Where now are the rifles that kept from your door The wolf and the robber as well? Of a truth, you have never been laggard before To deal with a savage so fell.

Has the love you once bore to your country grown cold? Has the fire on the altar died out? do you hold Your lives than your freedom more dear? Can you shamefully barter your birthright for gold, Or basely take counsel of fear?

We will not believe it; Kentucky, the land Of a Clay, will not tamely submit to the brand That disgraces the dastard, the slave: The hour of redemption draws nigh, is at hand, Her own sons her own honor shall save!

Mighty men of Missouri, come forth to the call, When the rush of your rivers, when tempests appal, And the torrents their sources unseal; And this be the watchword of one and of all— "Remember the butcher, McNeil!"

Then once more to the breach for the land of the West; Strike home for your hearths—for the lips you love best; Follow on where your leader you see; One flash of his sword, when the foe is hard pressed, And the land of the West shall be free!

[Footnote 1: General Johnston carries with him a beautiful blade, recently presented to him, bearing the mark of the Royal Manufactory of Toledo, 1862.]



Over the River.

By Jane T. H. Cross.

Published in the Nashville Christian Advocate, 1861.



We hail your "stripes" and lessened "stars," As one may hail a neighbor; Now forward move! no fear of jars, With nothing but free labor; And we will mind our slaves and farm, And never wish you any harm, But greet you—over the river.

The self-same language do we speak, The same dear words we utter; Then let's not make each other weak, Nor 'gainst each other mutter; But let each go his separate way, And each will doff his hat, and say: "I greet you—over the river!"

Our flags, almost the same, unfurl, And nod across the border; Ohio's waves between them curl— Our stripe's a little broader; May yours float out on every breeze, And, in our wake, traverse all seas— We greet you—over the river!

We part, as friends of years should part, With pleasant words and wishes, And no desire is in our heart For Lincoln's loaves and fishes; "Farewell," we wave you from afar, We like you best—just where you are— And greet you—over the river!



The Confederacy.

By Jane T. H. Cross.

Published in the Southern Christian Advocated.



Born in a day, full-grown, our Nation stood, The pearly light of heaven was on her face; Life's early joy was coursing in her blood; A thing she was of beauty and of grace.

She stood, a stranger on the great broad earth, No voice of sympathy was heard to greet The glory-beaming morning of her birth, Or hail the coming of the unsoiled feet.

She stood, derided by her passing foes; Her heart beat calmly 'neath their look of scorn; Their rage in blackening billows round her rose— Her brow, meanwhile, as radiant as the morn.

Their poisonous coils about her limbs are cast, She shakes them off in pure and holy ire, As quietly as Paul, in ages past, Shook off the serpent in the crackling fire.

She bends not to her foes, nor to the world, She bears a heart for glory, or for gloom; But with her starry cross, her flag unfurled, She kneels amid the sweet magnolia bloom.

She kneels to Thee, O God, she claims her birth, She lifts to Thee her young and trusting eye, She asks of Thee her place upon the earth— For it is Thine to give or to deny.

Oh, let Thine eye but recognize her right! Oh, let Thy voice but justify her claim! Like grasshoppers are nations in Thy sight, And all their power is but an empty name,

Then listen, Father, listen to her prayer! Her robes are dripping with her children's blood; Her foes around "like bulls of Bashan stare," They fain would sweep her off, "as with a flood."

The anguish wraps her close around, like death, Her children lie in heaps about her slain; Before the world she bravely holds her breath, Nor gives one utterance to a note of pain.

But 'tis not like Thee to forget the oppressed, Thou feel'st within her heart the stifled moan— Thou Christ! Thou Lamb of God! oh, give her rest! For Thou hast called her!—is she not Thine own?



President Davis.

By Jane T. H. Cross.

Published in the New York News, 1865.



The cell is lonely, and the night Has filled it with a darker gloom; The little rays of friendly light, Which through each crack and chink found room To press in with their noiseless feet, All merciful and fleet, And bring, like Noah's trembling dove, God's silent messages of love— These, too, are gone, Shut out, and gone, And that great heart is left alone.

Alone, with darkness and with woe, Around him Freedom's temple lies, Its arches crushed, its columns low, The night-wind through its ruin sighs; Rash, cruel hands that temple razed, Then stood the world amazed! And now those hands—ah, ruthless deeds! Their captive pierce—his brave heart bleeds; And yet no groan Is heard, no groan! He suffers silently, alone.

For all his bright and happy home, He has that cell, so drear and dark, The narrow walls, for heaven's blue dome, The clank of chains, for song of lark; And for the grateful voice of friends— That voice which ever lends Its charm where human hearts are found— He hears the key's dull, grating sound; No heart is near, No kind heart near, No sigh of sympathy, no tear!

Oh, dream not thus, thou true and good! Unnumbered hearts on thee await, By thee invisibly have stood, Have crowded through thy prison-gate; Nor dungeon bolts, nor dungeon bars, Nor floating "stripes and stars," Nor glittering gun or bayonet, Can ever cause us to forget Our faith to thee, Our love to thee, Thou glorious soul! thou strong! thou free!



The Rifleman's "Fancy Shot."



"Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot, Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette; Ring me a ball on the glittering spot That shines on his breast like an amulet."

"Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead; There's music around when my barrel's in tune." Crack! went the rifle; the messenger sped, And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.

"Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood: A button, a loop, or that luminous patch That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud."

"Oh, captain! I staggered, and sank in my track, When I gazed on the face of the fallen vidette; For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back, That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.

"But I snatched off the trinket—this locket of gold; An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."

"Ha! rifleman! fling me the locket—'tis she! My brother's young bride; and the fallen dragoon. Was her husband. Hush, soldier!—'twas heaven's deer We must bury him there, by the light of the moon.

"But hark! the far bugles their warning unite; War is a virtue, and weakness a sin; There's a lurking and lopping around us to-night: Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!"



"All Quiet Along the Potomac To-Night."

By Lamar Fontaine.



[The claim to the authorship of this poem, which Fontaine alleges, has been disputed in behalf of a lady of New York, but she herself continues silent on the subject.]

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!" Except here and there a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

'Tis nothing! a private or two now and then Will not count in the news of a battle; Not an officer lost! only one of the men Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night! Where soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; And their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, And the light of their camp-fires are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh, as a gentle night-wind Through the forest leaves slowly is creeping; While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard o'er the army while sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two on the low trundle bed, Far away, in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack, his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, And their mother—"may heaven defend her!"

The moon seems to shine forth as brightly as then— That night, when the love, yet unspoken, Leaped up to his lips, and when low-murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling; And gathers his gun closer up to his breast, As if to keep down the heart's swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree, And his footstep is lagging and weary; Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Towards the shades of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, good-by!" And his life-blood is ebbing and splashing.

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!" No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead, And the picket's off duty forever!



Address

Delivered at the opening of the new theatre at Richmond.

A Prize Poem.—By Henry Timrod.



A FAIRY ring

Drawn in the crimson of a battle-plain— From whose weird circle every loathsome thing And sight and sound of pain Are banished, while about it in the air, And from the ground, and from the low-hung skies, Throng, in a vision fair As ever lit a prophet's dying eyes, Gleams of that unseen world That lies about us, rainbow-tinted shapes With starry wings unfurled, Poised for a moment on such airy capes As pierce the golden foam Of sunset's silent main— Would image what in this enchanted dome, Amid the night of war and death In which the armed city draws its breath, We have built up! For though no wizard wand or magic cup The spell hath wrought, Within this charmed fane we ope the gates Of that divinest fairy-land Where, under loftier fates Than rule the vulgar earth on which we stand, Move the bright creatures of the realm of thought.

Shut for one happy evening from the flood That roars around us, here you may behold— As if a desert way Could blossom and unfold A garden fresh with May— Substantialized in breathing flesh and blood, Souls that upon the poet's page Have lived from age to age, And yet have never donned this mortal clay. A golden strand Shall sometimes spread before you like the isle Where fair Miranda's smile Met the sweet stranger whom the father's art Had led unto her heart, Which, like a bud that waited for the light, Burst into bloom at sight! Love shall grow softer in each maiden's eyes As Juliet leans her cheek upon her hand, And prattles to the night. Anon, a reverend form With tattered robe and forehead bare, That challenge all the torments of the air, Goes by! And the pent feelings choke in one long sigh, While, as the mimic thunder rolls, you hear The noble wreck of Lear Reproach like things of life the ancient skies, And commune with the storm! Lo! next a dim and silent chamber, where Wrapt in glad dreams, in which, perchance, the Moor Tells his strange story o'er, The gentle Desdemona chastely lies, Unconscious of the loving murderer nigh. Then through a hush like death Stalks Denmark's mailed ghost! And Hamlet enters with that thoughtful breath Which is the trumpet to a countless host Of reasons, but which wakes no deed from sleep; For while it calls to strife, He pauses on the very brink of fact To toy as with the shadow of an act, And utter those wise saws that cut so deep Into the core of life!

Nor shall be wanting many a scene Where forms of more familiar mien, Moving through lowlier pathways, shall present The world of every day, Such as it whirls along the busy quay, Or sits beneath a rustic orchard wall, Or floats about a fashion-freighted hall, Or toils in attics dark the night away. Love, hate, grief, joy, gain, glory, shame, shall meet, As in the round wherein our lives are pent; Chance for a while shall seem to reign, While goodness roves like guilt about the street, And guilt looks innocent.

But all at last shall vindicate the right. Crime shall be meted with its proper pain, Motes shall be taken from the doubter's sight, And fortune's general justice rendered plain. Of honest laughter there shall be no dearth, Wit shall shake hands with humor grave and sweet, Our wisdom shall not be too wise for mirth, Nor kindred follies want a fool to greet. As sometimes from the meanest spot of earth A sudden beauty unexpected starts, So you shall find some germs of hidden worth Within the vilest hearts; And now and then, when in those moods that turn To the cold Muse that whips a fault with sneers, You shall, perchance, be strangely touched to learn You've struck a spring of tears!

But while we lead you thus from change to change, Shall we not find within our ample range Some type to elevate a people's heart— Some haro who shall teach a hero's part In this distracted time? Rise from thy sleep of ages, noble Tell! And, with the Alpine thunders of thy voice, As if across the billows unenthralled, Thy Alps unto the Alleghanies called, Bid liberty rejoice! Proclaim upon this trans-Atlantic strand The deeds which, more than their own awful mien, Make every crag of Switzerland sublime! And say to those whose feeble souls would lean Not on themselves, but on some outstretched hand, That once a single mind sufficed to quell The malice of a tyrant; let them know That each may crowd in every well-aimed blow, Not the poor strength alone of arm and brand, But the whole spirit of a mighty land!

Bid liberty rejoice! Aye, though its day Be far or near, these clouds shall yet be red With the large promise of the coming ray. Meanwhile, with that calm courage which can smile Amid the terrors of the wildest fray, Let us among the charms of art awhile Fleet the deep gloom away; Nor yet forget that on each hand and head Rest the dear rights for which we fight and pray.



The Battle of Richmond.

By George Herbert Sass, Charleston, S.C.

"For they gat not the land in possession by their own sword; neither was it their own arm that helped them; but Thy right hand, and Thine arm, and the light of Thy countenance, because Thou hadst a favor unto them." —Psalm, xliv. 3, 4.



I.

Now blessed be the Lord of Hosts through all our Southern land, And blessed be His holy name, in whose great might we stand; For He who loves the voice of prayer hath heard His people's cry, And with His own almighty arm hath won the victory! Oh, tell it out through hearth and home, from blue Potomac's wave To those far waters of the West which hide De Soto's grave.



II.

Now let there be through all the land one grand triumphant cry, Wherever beats a Southern heart, or glows a Southern sky; For He who ruleth every fight hath been with us to-day, And the great God of battles hath led the glorious fray; Oh, then unto His holy name ring out the joyful song, The race hath not been to the swift, the battle to the strong.



III.

From royal Hudson's cliff-crowned banks, from proud Ohio's flood, From that dark rock in Plymouth's bay where erst the pilgrims stood, From East and North, from far and near, went forth the gathering cry, And the countless hordes came swarming on with fierce and lustful eye. In the great name of Liberty each thirsty sword is drawn; In the great name of Liberty each tyrant presseth on.



IV.

Alas, alas! her sacred name is all dishonored now, And blood-stained hands are tearing off each laurel from her brow; But ever yet rings out the cry, in loud and mocking tone, Still in her holy shrine they strive to rear a despot's throne; And pressing on with eager tread, they sweep across the land, To burn and havoc and destroy—a fierce and ruthless band.



V.

I looked on fair Potomac's shore, and at my feet the while The sparkling waves leaped gayly up to meet glad summer's smile; And pennons gay were floating there, and banners fair to see, A mighty host arrayed, I ween, in war's proud panoply; And as I gazed a cry arose, a low, deep-swelling hum, And loud and stern along the line broke in the sullen drum.



VI.

Onward, o'er fair Virginia's fields, through ranks of nodding grain, With shout and song they sweep along, a gay and gallant train. Oh, ne'er, I ween, had those broad plains beheld a fairer sight, And clear and glad those skies of June shed forth their glorious light. Onwards, yea, ever onwards, that mighty host hath passed, And "On to Richmond!" is the cry which echoes on the blast.



VII.

I looked again, the rising sun shines down upon the moors, And 'neath his beams rise ramparts high and frowning embrasures, And on each proud abattis yawn, with menace stern and dread, Grim-visaged messengers of death: the watchful sentry's tread In measured cadence slowly falls; all Nature seems at ease, And over all the Stars and Stripes are floating in the breeze.



VIII.

But far away another line is stretching dark and long, Another flag is floating free where armed legions throng; Another war-cry's on the air, as wakes the martial drum, And onward still, in serried ranks, the Southern soldiers come, And up to that abattis high the charging' columns tread, And bold and free the Stars and Bars are waving at their head.



IX.

They are on it! they are o'er it! who can stay that living flood? Lo, ever swelling, rolleth on the weltering tide of blood. Yet another and another is full boldly stormed and won, And forward to the spoiler's camp the column presseth on. Hurrah! hurrah! the field is won! we'e met them man to man, And ever still the Stars and Bars are riding in the van.



X.

They are flying! they are flying! and close upon their track Comes our glorious "Stonewall" Jackson, with ten thousand at his back; And Longstreet, too, and gallant Hill, and Rhodes, and brave Huger,[1] And he whose name is worth a host, our bold, devoted Lee; And back to where the lordly James his scornful billow rolls, The recreant foe is fleeing fast—those men of dastard souls.



XI.

They are flying! they are flying! horse and foot, and bold dragoon, In one refluent mass are mingled, 'neath the slowly waning moon; And louder still the cry is heard, as borne upon the blast, The shouts of the pursuing host are rising full and fast: "On, on unto the river, 'tis our only chance for life! We needs must reach the gunboats, or we perish in the strife!"



XII.

'Tis done! the gory field is ours; we've conquered in the fight! And yet once more our tongues can tell the triumph of the right; And humbled is the haughty foe, who our destruction sought, For God's right hand and holy arm have great deliverance wrought. Oh, then, unto His holy name ring out the joyful song— The race has not been to the swift, the battle to the strong.

[1] Pronounced Eujee



The Guerillas: A Southern War-Song.

By S. Teackle Wallis, of Maryland.



"Awake! and to horse, my brothers! For the dawn is glimmering gray; And hark! in the crackling brushwood There are feet that tread this way.

"Who cometh?" "A friend." "What tidings?" "O God! I sicken to tell, For the earth seems earth no longer, And its sights are sights of hell!

"There's rapine and fire and slaughter, From the mountain down to the shore; There's blood on the trampled harvest— There's blood on the homestead floor.

"From the far-off conquered cities Comes the voice of a stifled wail; And the shrieks and moans of the houseless Ring out, like a dirge, on the gale.

"I've seen, from the smoking village Our mothers and daughters fly; I've seen where the little children Sank down, in the furrows, to die.

"On the banks of the battle-stained river I stood, as the moonlight shone, And it glared on the face of my brother, As the sad wave swept him on.

"Where my home was glad, are ashes, And horror and shame had been there— For I found, on the fallen lintel, This tress of my wife's torn hair.

"They are turning the slave upon us, And, with more than the fiend's worst art, Have uncovered the fires of the savage That slept in his untaught heart.

"The ties to our hearths that bound him, They have rent, with curses, away, And maddened him, with their madness, To be almost as brutal as they.

"With halter and torch and Bible, And hymns to the sound of the drum, They preach the gospel of Murder, And pray for Lust's kingdom to come.

"To saddle! to saddle! my brothers! Look up to the rising sun, And ask of the God who shines there, Whether deeds like these shall be done!

"Wherever the vandal cometh, Press home to his heart with your steel, And when at his bosom you cannot, Like the serpent, go strike at his heel!

"Through thicket and wood go hunt him, Creep up to his camp fireside, And let ten of his corpses blacken Where one of our brothers hath died.

"In his fainting, foot-sore marches, In his flight from the stricken fray, In the snare of the lonely ambush, The debts that we owe him pay,

"In God's hand, alone, is judgment; But He strikes with the hands of men, And His blight would wither our manhood If we smote not the smiter again.

"By the graves where our fathers slumber, By the shrines where our mothers prayed, By our homes and hopes and freedom. Let every man swear on his blade.—

"That he will not sheath nor stay it, Till from point to heft it glow With the flush of Almighty vengeance, In the blood of the felon foe."

They swore—and the answering sunlight Leapt red from their lifted swords, And the hate in their hearts made echo To the wrath in their burning words.

There's weeping in all New England, And by Schuylkill's banks a knell, And the widows there, and the orphans, How the oath was kept can tell.



A Farewell to Pope.

By John K. Thompson, of Virginia.



"Hats off" in the crowd, "Present arms" in the line! Let the standards all bow, and the sabres incline— Roll, drums, the Rogue's March, while the conqueror goes, Whose eyes have seen only "the backs of his foes"— Through a thicket of laurel, a whirlwind of cheers, His vanishing form from our gaze disappears; Henceforth with the savage Dacotahs to cope, Abiit, evasit, erupit—John Pope.

He came out of the West, like the young Lochinvor, Compeller of fate and controller of war, Videre et vincere, simply to see, And straightway to conquer Hill, Jackson and Lee, And old Abe at the White House, like Kilmansegg pre, With a monkeyish grin and beatified air, "Seemed washing his hands with invisible soap," As with eager attention he listened to Pope.

He came—and the poultry was swept by his sword, Spoons, liquors, and furniture went by the board; He saw—at a distance, the rebels appear, And "rode to the front," which was strangely the rear; He conquered—truth, decency, honor full soon, Pest, pilferer, puppy, pretender, poltroon; And was fain from the scene of his triumphs to slope. Sure there never was fortunate hero like Pope.

He has left us his shining example to note, And Stuart has captured his uniform coat; But 'tis puzzling enough, as his deeds we recall, To tell on whose shoulders his mantle should fall; While many may claim to deserve it, at least, From Hunter, the Hound, down to Butler, the Beast, None else, we can say, without risking the trope, But himself can be parallel ever to Pope.

Like his namesake the poet of genius and fire, He gives new expression and force to the lyre; But in one little matter they differ, the two, And differ, indeed, very widely, 'tis true— While his verses gave great Alexaader his fame, 'Tis our hero's reverses accomplish the same; And fate may decree that the end of a rope Shall award yet his highest position to Pope.



Sonnet.

On Reading a Proclamation for Public Prayer.

South Carolinian.



Oh! terrible, this prayer in the market-place, These advertised humilities—decreed By proclamation, that we may be freed, And mercy find for once, and saving grace, Even while we forfeit all that made the race Worthy of Heavenly favor—and profess Our faith and homage only through duress, And dread of danger which we dare not face.

All working that's done worthily is prayer— And honest thought is prayer—the wish, the will To mend our ways, maintain our virtues still, And, losing life, still keep our bosoms fair In sight of God—with whom humility And patient working can alone make free.



Battle of Belmont.

By J. Augustine Signaigo.

From the Memphis Appeal, Dec. 21, 1861.



I.

Now glory to our Southern cause, and praises be to God, That He hath met the Southron's foe, and scourged him with his rod: On the tented plains of Belmont, in their might the Vandals came, And they gave unto destruction all they found, with sword and flame; But they met a stout resistance from a little band that day, Who swore nobly they would conquer, or return to mother clay.



II.

But the Vandals with presumption—for they came in all their might— Gave free vent unto their feelings, for they thought to win the fight; And they forced our little cohorts to the very river's brink, With a breath between destruction and of life's remaining link: When the cannon of McCown, belching fire from out its mouth, Brought destruction to the Vandals and protection to the South.



III.

There was Pillow, Polk and Cheatham, who had sworn that day on high That field should see them conquer, or that field should see them die; And amid the groan of dying and amid the battle's din, Came the echo back from heaven, that they should that battle win: And amid the boom of cannons, and amid the clash of swords, Came destruction to the foeman—and the vengeance was the Lord's!



IV.

When the fight was raging hottest, came the wild and cheering cry, That brought terror to the foeman, and that raised our spirits high! It was "Cheatham!" "Cheatham!" "Cheatham!" that the Vandals' ears did sting, And our boys caught up the echo till it made the welkin ring; And the moment that the Hessians thought the fight was surely won, From the crackling of our rifles—bravely then they had to run!



V.

Then they ran unto their transports in deep terror and dismay, And their great grandchildren's children will be shamed to name that day; For the woe they came to bring to the people of the South Was returned tenfold to them at the cannon's booming mouth: And the proud old Mississippi ran that day a horrid flood, For its banks were deeply crimsoned with the hireling Northman's blood.



VI.

Let us think of those who fell there, fighting foremost with the foe, And who nobly struck for Freedom, dealing Tyranny a blow: Like the ocean beating wildly 'gainst a prow of adamant, Or the storm that keeps on bursting, but cannot destroy the plant; Brave Lieutenant Walker, wounded, still fought on the bloody field, Cheering on his noble comrades, ne'er unto the foe to yield!



VII.

None e'er knew him but to love him, the brave martyr to his clime— Now his name belongs to Freedom, to the very end of Time: And the last words that he uttered will forgotten be by few: "I have bravely fought them, mother—I have bravely fought for you!" Let his memory be green in the hearts who love the South, And his noble deeds the theme that shall dwell in every mouth.



VIII.

In the hottest of the battle stood a Vandal bunting rag, Proudly to the breeze 'twas floating in defiance to our flag; And our Southern boys knew well that, to bring that bunting down, They would meet the angel death in his sternest, maddest frown; But it could not gallant Armstrong, dauntless Vollmer, or brave Lynch, Though ten thousand deaths confronted, from the task of honor flinch!



IX.

And they charged upon that bunting, guarded by grim-visaged Death, Who had withered all around it with the blister of his breath; But they plucked it from his grasp, and brave Vollmner waved it high, On the gory field of battle, where the three were doomed to die; But before their spirits fled came the death-shout of the three, Cheering for the sunny South and beloved old Tennessee!



X.

Let the horrors of this day to the foe a warning be, That the Lord is with the South, that His arm is with the free; That her soil is pure and spotless, as her clear and sunny sky. And that he who dare pollute it on her soil shall basely die; For His fiat hath gone forth, e'en among the Hessian horde, That the South has got His blessing, for the South is of the Lord.



XI.

Then glory to our Southern cause, and praises give to God, That He hath met the Southron's foe and scourged him with His rod; That He hath been upon our side, with all His strength and might, And battled for the Southern cause in every bloody fight; Let us, in meek humility, to all the world proclaim, We bless and glorify the Lord, and battle in His name.



Vicksburg—A Ballad.

By Paul H. Hayne.



I.

For sixty days and upwards, A storm of shell and shot Rained 'round us in a flaming shower, But still we faltered not! "If the noble city perish," Our grand young leader said, "Let the only walls the foe shall scale Be the ramparts of the dead!"



II.

For sixty days and upwards The eye of heaven waxed dim, And even throughout God's holy morn, O'er Christian's prayer and hymn, Arose a hissing tumult, As if the fiends of air Strove to ingulf the voice of faith In the shrieks of their despair.



III.

There was wailing in the houses, There was trembling on the marts, While the tempest raged and thundered, 'Mid the silent thrill of hearts; But the Lord, our shield, was with us, And ere a month had sped Our very women walked the streets With scarce one throb of dread.



IV.

And the little children gambolled— Their faces purely raised, Just for a wondering moment, As the huge bomb whirled and blazed! Then turned with silvery laughter To the sports which children love, Thrice mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought, That the good God watched above.



V.

Yet the hailing bolts fell faster, From scores of flame-clad ships, And about us, denser, darker, Grew the conflict's wild eclipse, Till a solid cloud closed o'er us, Like a type of doom, and ire, Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues Of forked and vengeful fire.



VI.

But the unseen hands of angels Those death-shafts turned aside, And the dove of heavenly mercy Ruled o'er the battle tide; In the houses ceased the wailing, And through the war-scarred marts The people trode with the step of hope, To the music in their hearts.

Columbia, S.C., August 6, 1862.



A Ballad of the War.

Published Originally in the Southern Field and Fireside,

By George Herbert Sass, of Charleston, S.C.



Watchman, what of the night? Through the city's darkening street, Silent and slow, the guardsmen go On their long and lonely beat.

Darkly, drearily down, Falleth the wintry rain; And the cold, gray mist hath the roof-tops kissed, As it glides o'er town and plain.

Beating against the windows, The sleet falls heavy and chill, And the children draw nigher 'round hearth and fire, As the blast shrieks loud and shrill.

Silent is all without, Save the sentry's challenge grim, And a hush sinks down o'er the weary town, And the sleeper's eyes are dim.

Watchman, what of the night? Hark! from the old church-tower Rings loud and clear, on the misty air, The chime of the midnight hour.

But another sound breaks in, A summons deep and rude, The roll of the drum, and the rush and hum Of a gathering multitude.

And the dim and flickering torch Sheds a red and lurid glare, O'er the long dark line, whose bayonets shine Faintly, yet sternly there.

A low, deep voice is heard: "Rest on your arms, my men." Then the muskets clank through each serried rank, And all is still again.

Pale faces and tearful eyes Gaze down on that grim array, For a rumor hath spread that that column dread Marcheth ere break of day.

Marcheth against "the rebels," Whose camp lies heavy and still, Where the driving sleet and the cold rain beat On the brow of a distant hill.

And the mother's heart grows faint, As she thinks of her darling one, Who perchance may lie 'neath that wintry sky, Ere the long, dark night be done.

Pallid and haggard, too, Is the cheek of the fair young wife; And her eye grows dim as she thinks of him She loveth more than life.

For fathers, husbands, sons, Are the "rebels" the foe would smite, And earnest the prayer for those lives so dear, And a bleeding country's right.

And where their treasure is, There is each loving heart; And sadly they gaze by the torches' blaze, And the tears unbidden start.

Is there none to warn the camp, None from that anxious throng? Ah, the rain beats down o'er plain and town— The way is dark and long.

No man is left behind, None that is brave and true, And the bayonets, bright in the lurid light With menace stern shine through.

Guarded is every street, Brutal the hireling foe; Is there one heart here will boldly dare So brave a deed to do?

Look! in her still, dark room, Alone a woman kneels, With Care's deep trace on her pale, worn face, And Sorrow's ruthless seals.

Wrinkling her placid brow, A matron, she, and fair, Though wan her cheek, and the silver streak Gemming her glossy hair.

A moment in silent prayer Her pale lips move, and then, Through the dreary night, like an angel bright, On her mission of love to men.

She glideth upon her way, Through the lonely, misty street, Shrinking with dread as she hears the tread Of the watchman on his beat.

Onward, aye, onward still, Far past the weary town, Till languor doth seize on her feeble knees, And the heavy hands hang down.

But bravely she struggles on, Breasting the cold, dank rain, And, heavy and chill, the mist from the hill Sweeps down upon the plain.

Hark! far behind she hears A dull and muffled tramp, But before her the gleam of the watch-fire's beam Shines out from the Southern camp.

She hears the sentry's challenge, Her work of love is done; She has fought a good fight, and on Fame's proud height Hath a crown of glory won.

Oh, they tell of a Tyrol maiden, Who saved from a ruthless foe Her own fair town, 'mid its mountains brown, Three hundred years ago.

And I've read in tales heroic How a noble Scottish maid Her own life gave, her king to save From the foul assassin's blade.

But if these, on the rolls of honor, Shall live in lasting fame, Oh, close beside, in grateful pride, We'll write this matron's name.

And when our fair-haired children Shall cluster round our knee, With wondering gaze, as we tell of the days When we swore that we would be free,

We'll tell them the thrilling story, And we'll say to each childish heart, "By this gallant deed, at thy country's need, Be ready to do thy part."



The Two Armies.

By Henry Timrod.



Two armies stand enrolled beneath The banner with the starry wreath: One, facing battle, blight, and blast, Through twice a hundred fields has passed; Its deeds against a ruffian foe, Stream, valley, hill, and mountain know, Till every wind that sweeps the land Goes, glory-laden, from the strand.

The other, with a narrower scope, Yet led by not less grand a hope, Hath won, perhaps, as proud a place, And wears its fame with meeker grace. Wives march beneath its glittering sign, Fond mothers swell the lovely line: And many a sweetheart hides her blush In the young patriot's generous flush.

No breeze of battle ever fanned The colors of that tender band; Its office is beside the bed, Where throbs some sick or wounded head. It does not court the soldier's tomb, But plies the needle and the loom; And, by a thousand peaceful deeds, Supplies a struggling nation's needs.

Nor is that army's gentle might Unfelt amid the deadly fight; It nerves the son's, the husband's hand, It points the lover's fearless brand; It thrills the languid, warms the cold, Gives even new courage to the bold; And sometimes lifts the veriest clod To its own lofty trust in God.

When Heaven shall blow the trump of peace, And bid this weary warfare cease, Their several missions nobly done, The triumph grasped, and freedom won, Both armies, from their toils at rest, Alike may claim the victor's crest, But each shall see its dearest prize Gleam softly from the other's eyes.



The Legion of Honor.

By H.L. Flash.



Why are we forever speaking Of the warriors of old? Men are fighting all around us, Full as noble, full as bold.

Ever working, ever striving, Mind and muscle, heart and soul, With the reins of judgment keeping Passions under full control.

Noble hearts are beating boldly As they ever did on earth; Swordless heroes are around us, Striving ever from their birth.

Tearing down the old abuses, Building up the purer laws, Scattering the dust of ages, Searching out the hidden flaws.

Acknowledging no "right divine" In kings and princes from the rest; In their creed he is the noblest Who has worked and striven best.

Decorations do not tempt them— Diamond stars they laugh to scorn— Each will wear a "Cross of Honor" On the Resurrection morn.

Warriors they in fields of wisdom— Like the noble Hebrew youth, Striking down Goliath's error With the God-blessed stone of truth.

Marshalled 'neath the Right's broad banner, Forward rush these volunteers, Beating olden wrong away From the fast advancing years.

Contemporaries do not see them, But the coming times will say (Speaking of the slandered present), "There were heroes in that day."

Why are we then idly lying On the roses of our life, While the noble-hearted struggle In the world-redeeming strife.

Let us rise and join the legion, Ever foremost in the fray— Battling in the name of Progress For the nobler, purer day.



Clouds in the West.

By A. J. Requier, of Alabama.



Hark! on the wind that whistles from the West A manly shout for instant succor comes, From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast, With rage-indented drums!

Who dare for child, wife, country—stream and strand, Though but a fraction to the swarming foe, There—at the flooded gateways of the land, To stem a torrent's flow.

To arms! brave sons of each embattled State, Whose queenly standard is a Southern star: Who would be free must ride the lists of Fate On Freedom's victor-car!

Forsake the field, the shop, the mart, the hum Of craven traffic for the mustering clan: The dead themselves are pledged that you shall come And prove yourself—a man.

That sacred turf where first a thrilling grief Was felt which taught you Heaven alone disposes— God! can you live to see a foreign thief Contaminate its roses?

Blow, summoning trumpets, a compulsive stave Through all the bounds, from Beersheba to Dan; Come out! come out! who scorns to be a slave, Or claims to be a man!

Hark! on the breezes whistling from the West A manly shout for instant succor comes, From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast. With rage-indented drums!

Who charge and cheer amid the murderous din, Where still your battle-flags unbended wave, Dying for what your fathers died to win And you must fight to save.

Ho! shrilly fifes that stir the vales from sleep, Ho! brazen thunders from the mountains hoar; The very waves are marshalling on the deep, While tempests tread the shore.

Arise and swear, your palm-engirdled land Shall burial only yield a bandit foe; Then spring upon the caitiffs, steel in hand, And strike the fated blow.



Georgia, My Georgia!

By Carrie Bell Sinclair.



Hark! 'tis the cannon's deafening roar, That sounds along thy sunny shore, And thou shalt lie in chains no more, My wounded, bleeding Georgia! Then arm each youth and patriot sire, Light up the patriotic fire, And bid the zeal of those ne'er tire, Who strike for thee, my Georgia

On thee is laid oppression's hand, Around thy altars foemen stand, To scatter freedom's gallant band, And lay thee low, my Georgia! But thou hast noble sons, and brave, The Stars and Bars above thee wave, And here we'll make oppression's grave, Upon the soil of Georgia!

We bow at Liberty's fair shrine, And kneel in holy love at thine, And while above our stars still shine, We'll strike for them and Georgia!

Thy woods with victory shall resound, Thy brow shall be with laurels crowned, And peace shall spread her wings around My own, my sunny Georgia!

Yes, these shall teach thy foes to feel That Southern hearts, and Southern steel, Will make them in submission kneel Before the sons of Georgia! And thou shalt see thy daughters, too, With pride and patriotism true, Arise with strength to dare and do, Ere they shall conquer Georgia.

Thy name shall be a name of pride— Thy heroes all have nobly died, That thou mayst be the spotless bride Of Liberty, my Georgia! Then wave thy sword and banner high, And louder raise the battle-cry, 'Till shouts of victory reach the sky, And thou art free, my Georgia!



Song of the Texas Rangers.



Air—The Yellow Rose of Texas.

The morning star is paling, The camp-fires flicker low, Our steeds are madly neighing, For the bugle bids us go. So put the foot in stirrup, And shake the bridle free, For to-day the Texas Rangers Must cross the Tennessee,

With Wharton for our leader, We'll chase the dastard foe, Till our horses bathe their fetlocks In the deep blue Ohio. Our men are from the prairies, That roll broad and proud and free, From the high and craggy mountains To the murmuring Mexic' sea; And their hearts are open as their plains, Their thoughts as proudly brave As the bold cliffs of the San Bernard, Or the Gulf's resistless wave.

Then quick! into the saddle, And shake the bridle free, To-day, with gallant Wharton, We cross the Tennessee.

'Tis joy to be a Ranger! To fight for dear Southland; 'Tis joy to follow Wharton, With his gallant, trusty band! 'Tis joy to see our Harrison, Plunge like a meteor bright Into the thickest of the fray, And deal his deathly might.

Oh! who'd not be a Ranger, And follow Wharton's cry! To battle for his country— And, if it needs be—die!

By the Colorado's waters, On the Gulf's deep murmuring shore, On our soft green peaceful prairies Are the homes we may see no more; But in those homes our gentle wives, And mothers with silv'ry hairs, Are loving us with tender hearts, And shielding us with prayers.

So, trusting in our country's God, We draw our stout, good brand, For those we love at home, Our altars and our land.

Up, up with the crimson battle-flag— Let the blue pennon fly; Our steeds are stamping proudly— They hear the battle-cry! The thundering bomb, the bugle's call, Proclaim the foe is near; We strike for God and native land, And all we hold most dear.

Then spring into the saddle, And shake the bridle free— For Wharton leads, through fire and blood, For Home and Victory!



Kentucky Required to Yield Her Arms.

By——Boone.



Ho! will the despot trifle, In dwellings of the free; Kentuckians yield the rifle, Kentuckians bend the knee! With dastard fear of danger, And trembling at the strife; Kentucky, to the stranger, Yield liberty for life! Up! up! each gallant ranger, With rifle and with knife!

The bastard and the traitor, The wolfcub and the snake, The robber, swindler, hater, Are in your homes—awake! Nor let the cunning foeman Despoil your liberty; Yield weapon up to no man, While ye can strike and see, Awake, each gallant yeoman, If still ye would be free!

Aye, see to sight the rifle, And smite with spear and knife, Let no base cunning stifle Each lesson of your life: How won your gallant sires The country which ye keep? By soul, which still inspires The soil on which ye weep! Leap up! their spirit fires, And rouse ye from your sleep!

"What!" cry the sires so famous, In Orleans' ancient field, "Will ye, our children, shame us, And to the despot yield? What! each brave lesson stifle We left to give you life? Let apish despots trifle With home and child and wife? And yield, O shame! the rifle, And sheathe, O shame! the knife?"



"There's Life in the Old Land Yet."

First Published in the New Orleans Delta, about September 1, 1861.



By blue Patapsco's billowy dash The tyrant's war-shout comes, Along with the cymbal's fitful clash And the growl of his sullen drums; We hear it, we heed it, with vengeful thrills, And we shall not forgive or forget— There's faith in the streams, there's hope in the hills, "There's life in the Old Land yet!"

Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead, We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred— We crouch—'tis to welcome the triumph-tread Of the peerless Beauregard. Then woe to your vile, polluting horde, When the Southern braves are met; There's faith in the victor's stainless sword, "There's life in the Old Land yet!"

Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind With the clank of an iron chain; The spirit of Freedom sings in the wind O'er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane; And we—though we smite not—are not thralls, We are piling a gory debt; While down by McHenry's dungeon walls "There's life in the Old Land yet!"

Our women, have hung their harps away And they scowl on your brutal bands, While the nimble poignard dares the day In their dear defiant hands; They will strip their tresses to string our bows Ere the Northern sun is set— There's faith in their unrelenting woes— "There's life in the Old Land yet!"

There's life, though it throbbeth in silent veins, 'Tis vocal without noise; It gushed o'er Manassas' solemn plains From the blood of the Maryland boys. That blood shall cry aloud and rise With an everlasting threat— By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies, "There's life in the Old Land yet!"



Tell the Boys the War Is Ended.

By Emily J. Moore.



While in the first ward of the Quintard Hospital, Rome, Georgia, a young soldier from the Eighth Arkansas Begiment, who had been wounded at Murfreesboro', called me to his bedside. As I approached I saw that he was dying, and when I bent over him he was just able to whisper, "Tell the boys the war is ended."

"Tell the boys the war is ended," These were all the words he said; "Tell the boys the war is ended," In an instant more was dead.

Strangely bright, serene, and cheerful Was the smile upon his face, While the pain, of late so fearful, Had not left the slightest trace.

"Tell the boys the war is ended," And with heavenly visions bright Thoughts of comrades loved were blended, As his spirit took its flight. "Tell the boys the war is ended," "Grant, 0 God, it may be so," Was the prayer which then ascended, In a whisper deep, though low.

"Tell the boys the war is ended," And his warfare then was o'er, As, by angel bands attended, He departed from earth's shore. Bursting shells and cannons roaring Could not rouse him by their din; He to better worlds was soaring, Far from war, and pain, and sin.



"The Southern Cross."

By St. George Tucker, of Virginia.



Oh! say can you see, through the gloom and the storm, More bright for the darkness, that pure constellation? Like the symbol of love and redemption its form, As it points to the haven of hope for the nation. How radiant each star, as the beacon afar, Giving promise of peace, or assurance in war! 'Tis the Cross of the South, which shall ever remain To light us to freedom and glory again!

How peaceful and blest was America's soil, 'Till betrayed by the guile of the Puritan demon, Which lurks under virtue, and springs from its coil To fasten its fangs in the life-blood of freemen. Then boldly appeal to each heart that can feel, And crush the foul viper 'neath Liberty's heel! And the Cross of the South shall in triumph remain, To light us to freedom and glory again!

'Tis the emblem of peace,'tis the day-star of hope, Like the sacred Labarum that guided the Roman; From the shores of the Gulf to the Delaware's slope, 'Tis the trust of the free and the terror of foemen. Fling its folds to the air, while we boldly declare The rights we demand or the deeds that we dare! While the Cross of the South shall in triumph remain, To light us to freedom and glory again!

And if peace should be hopeless and justice denied, And war's bloody vulture should flap its black pinions, Then gladly "to arms," while we hurl, in our pride, Defiance to tyrants and death to their minions! With our front in the field, swearing never to yield, Or return, like the Spartan, in death on our shield! And the Cross of the South shall triumphantly wave, As the flag of the free or the pall of the brave!

Southern Literary Messenger.



England's Neutrality.

A Parliamentary Debate.

By John R. Thompson, of Richmond, Virginia.



All ye who with credulity the whispers hear of fancy, Or yet pursue with eagerness hope's wild extravagancy, Who dream that England soon will drop her long miscalled neutrality, And give us, with a hearty shake, the hand of nationality,

Read, as we give, with little fault of statement or omission, The next debate in parliament on Southern Recognition; They're all so much alike, indeed, that one can write it off, I see, As truly as the Times' report, without the gift of prophecy.

Not yet, not yet to interfere does England see occasion, But treats our good commissioner with coolness and evasion; Such coolness in the premises, that really 'tis refrigerant To think that two long years ago she called us a belligerent.

But, further, Downing-street is dumb, the premier deaf to reason, As deaf as is the Morning Post, both in and out of season; The working men of Lancashire are all reduced to beggary, And yet they will not listen unto Roebuck or to Gregory,

"Or any other man," to-day, who counsels interfering, While all who speak on t'other side obtain a ready hearing— As, par exemple, Mr. Bright, that pink of all propriety, That meek and mild disciple of the blessed Peace Society.

"Why, let 'em fight," says Mr. Bright, "those Southerners, I hate 'em, And hope the Black Republicans will soon exterminate 'em; If freedom can't rebellion crush, pray tell me what's the use of her?" And so he chuckles o'er the fray as gleefully as Lucifer.

Enough of him—an abler man demands our close attention— The Maximus Apollo of strict non-intervention— With pitiless severity, though decorous and calm his tone, Thus spake the "old man eloquent," the puissant Earl of Palmerston:

"What though the land run red with blood, what though the lurid flashes Of cannon light, at dead of night, a mournful heap of ashes Where many an ancient mansion stood—what though the robber pillages The sacred home, the house of God, in twice a hundred villages.

"What though a fiendish, nameless wrong, that makes revenge a duty, Is daily done" (O Lord, how long!) "to tenderness and beauty!" (And who shall tell this deed of hell, how deadlier far a curse it is Than even pulling temples down and burning universities)?

"Let arts decay, let millions fall, aye, let freedom perish, With all that in the western world men fain would love and cherish; Let universal ruin there become a sad reality: We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous neutrality."

Oh, Pam! oh, Pam! hast ever read what's writ in holy pages, How blessed the peace-makers are, God's children of the ages? Perhaps you think the promise sweet was nothing but a platitude; 'Tis clear that you have no concern in that divine beatitude.

But "hear! hear! hear!" another peer, that mighty man of muscle, Is on his legs, what slender pegs! "ye noble Earl" of Russell; Thus might he speak, did not of speech his shrewd reserve the folly see, And thus unfold the subtle plan of England's secret policy.

"John Bright was right, yes, let 'em fight, these fools across the water, 'Tis no affair at all of ours, their carnival of slaughter; The Christian world, indeed, may say we ought not to allow it, sirs, But still 'tis music in our ears, this roar of Yankee howitzers.

"A word or two of sympathy, that costs us not a penny, We give the gallant Southerners, the few against the many; We say their noble fortitude of final triumph presages, And praise, in Blackwood's Magazine, Jeff. Davis and his messages.

"Of course we claim the shining fame of glorious Stonewall Jackson, Who typifies the English race, a sterling Anglo-Saxon; To bravest song his deeds belong, to Clio and Melpomene"— (And why not for a British stream demand the Chickahominy?)

"But for the cause in which he fell we cannot lift a finger, 'Tis idle on the question any longer here to linger; 'Tis true the South has freely bled, her sorrows are Homeric, oh! Her case is like to his of old who journeyed unto Jericho.

"The thieves have stripped and bruised, although as yet they have not bound her, We'd like to see her slay 'em all to right and left around her; We shouldn't cry in parliament if Lee should cross the Raritan, But England never yet was known to play the Good Samaritan.

"And so we pass the other side, and leave them to their glory, To give new proofs of manliness, new scenes for song and story; These honeyed words of compliment may possibly bamboozle 'em, But ere we intervene, you know, we'll see 'em in—Jerusalem.

"Yes, let 'em fight, till both are brought to hopeless desolation, Till wolves troop round the cottage door in one and t'other nation, Till, worn and broken down, the South shall prove no more refractory, And rust eats up the silent looms of every Yankee factory.

"Till bursts no more the cotton boll o'er fields of Carolina, And fills with snowy flosses the dusky hands of Dinah; Till war has dealt its final blow, and Mr. Seward's knavery Has put an end in all the land to freedom and to slavery.

"The grim Bastile, the rack, the wheel, without remorse or pity, May flourish with the guillotine in every Yankee city; No matter should old Abe revive the brazen bull of Phalaris, 'Tis no concern at all of ours"—(sensation in the galleries.)

"So shall our 'merry England' thrive on trans-Atlantic troubles, While India, on her distant plains, her crop of cotton doubles; And just so long as North or South shall show the least vitality, We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous neutrality."

Your speech, my lord, might well become a Saxon legislator, When the "fine old English gentleman" lived in a state of natur', When Vikings quaffed from human skulls their fiery draughts of honey mead, Long, long before the barons bold met tyrant John at Runnymede.

But 'tis a speech so plain, my lord, that all may understand it, And so we quickly turn again to fight the Yankee bandit, Convinced that we shall fairly win at last our nationality, Without the help of Britain's arm, in spite of her neutrality.

Illustrated News.



Close the Ranks.

By John L. O'Sullivan.



The fell invader is before! Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! We'll hunt his legions from our shore, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! Our wives, our children are behind, Our mothers, sisters, dear and kind, Their voices reach us on the wind, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

Are we to bend to slavish yoke? Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! We'll bend when bends our Southern oak. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! On with the line of serried steel, We all can die, we none can kneel To crouch beneath the Northern heel. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

We kneel to God, and God alone. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! One heart in all—all hearts as one. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! For home, for country, truth and right, We stand or fall in freedom's fight: In such a cause the right is might. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

We're here from every southern home. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! Fond, weeping voices bade us come. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks The husband, brother, boy, and sire, All burning with one holy fire— Our country's love our only hire. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

We cannot fail, we will not yield! Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! Our bosoms are our country's shield. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! By Washington's immortal name, By Stonewall Jackson's kindred fame, Their souls, their deeds, their cause the same, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

By all we hope, by all we love, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! By home on earth, by Heaven above, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! By all the tears, and heart's blood shed, By all our hosts of martyred dead, We'll conquer, or we'll share their bed. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!

The front may fall, the rear succeed, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! We smile in triumph as we bleed, Close the ranks! Close up the ranks! Our Southern Cross above us waves, Long shall it bless the sacred graves Of those who died, but were not slaves. Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!



The Sea-Kings of the South.

By Edward C. Bruce, of Winchester, Va.



Full many have sung of the victories our warriors have won, From Bethel, by the eastern tide, to sunny Galveston, On fair Potomac's classic shore, by sweeping Tennessee, Hill, rock, and river shall tell forever the vengeance of the free.

The air still rings with the cannon-shot, with battle's breath is warm; Still on the hills their swords have saved our legions wheel and form; And Johnston, Beauregard, and Lee, with all their gallant train, Wait yet at their head, in silence dread, the hour to charge again.

But a ruggeder field than the mountain-side—a broader field than the plain, Is spread for the fight in the stormy wave and the globe-embracing main, 'Tis there the keel of the goodly ship must trace the fate of the land, For the name ye write in the sea-foam white shall first and longest stand.

For centuries on centuries, since first the hallowed tree Was launched by the lone mariner on some primeval sea, No stouter stuff than the heart of oak, or tough elastic pine, Had floated beyond the shallow shoal to pass the burning Line.

The Naiad and the Dryad met in billow and in spar; The forest fought at Salamis, the grove at Trafalgar. Old Tubalcain had sweated amain to forge the brand and ball; But failed to frame the mighty hull that held enfortressed all.

Six thousand years had waited for our gallant tars to show That iron was to ride the wave and timber sink below. The waters bland that welcomed first the white man to our shore, Columbus, of an iron world, the brave Buchanan bore.

Not gun for gun, but thirty to one, the odds he had to meet! One craft, untried of wind or tide, to beard a haughty fleet! Above her shattered relics now the billows break and pour; But the glory of that wondrous day shall be hers for evermore.

See yonder speck on the mist afar, as dim as in a dream! Anear it speeds, there are masts like reeds and a tossing plume of steam! Fleet, fierce, and gaunt, with bows aslant, she dashes proudly on, Whence and whither, her prey to gather, the foe shall learn anon.

Oh, broad and green is her hunting-park, and plentiful the game! From the restless bay of old Biscay to the Carib' sea she came. The catchers of the whale she caught; swift Ariel overhauled; And made Hatteras know the hardest blow that ever a tar appalled.

She bears the name of a noble State, and sooth she bears it well. To us she hath made it a word of pride, to the Northern ear a knell. To the Puritan in the busy mart, the Puritan on his deck, With "Alabama" visions start of ruin, woe, and wreck.

In vain his lubberly squadrons round her magic pathway swoop— Admiral, captain, commodore, in gunboat, frigate, sloop. Save to snatch a prize, or a foe chastise, as their feeble art she foils, She will scorn a point from her course to veer, to baffle all their toils.

And bravely doth her sister-ship begin her young career. Already hath her gentle name become a name of fear; The name that breathes of the orange-bloom, of soft lagoons that roll Round the home of the Roman of the West—the unconquered Seminole.

Like the albatross and the tropic-bird, forever on the wing, For them nor night nor breaking morn may peace nor shelter bring. All drooping from the weary cruise or shattered from the fight, No dear home-haven opes to them its arms with welcome bright.

Then side by side, in our love and pride, be our men of the land and sea; The fewer these, the sterner task, the greater their guerdon be! The fairest wreaths of amaranth the fairest hands shall twine For the brows of our preux chevaliers, the Bayards of the brine!

The "stars and bars" of our sturdy tars as gallantly shall wave As long shall live in the storied page, or the spirit-stirring stave, As hath the red cross of St. George or the raven-flag of Thor, Or flag of the sea, whate'er it be, that ever unfurled to war.

Then flout full high to their parent sky those circled stars of ours, Where'er the dark-hulled foeman floats, where'er his emblem towers! Speak for the right, for the truth and light, from the gun's unmuzzled mouth, And the fame of the Dane revive again, ye Vikings of the SOUTH!

Richmond Sentinel, March 30, 1863.



The Return.



Three years! I wonder if she'll know me? I limp a little, and I left one arm At Petersburg; and I am grown as brown As the plump chestnuts on my little farm: And I'm as shaggy as the chestnut burrs— But ripe and sweet within, and wholly hers.

The darling! how I long to see her! My heart outruns this feeble soldier pace, For I remember, after I had left, A little Charlie came to take my place. Ah! how the laughing, three-year old, brown eyes— His mother's eyes—will stare with pleased surprise!

Surely, they will be at the corner watching! I sent them word that I should come to-night: The birds all know it, for they crowd around, Twittering their welcome with a wild delight; And that old robin, with a halting wing— I saved her life, three years ago last spring.

Three years! perhaps I am but dreaming! For, like the pilgrim of the long ago, I've tugged, a weary burden at my back, Through summer's heat and winter's blinding snow; Till now, I reach my home, my darling's breast, There I can roll my burden off, and rest.

* * * * *

When morning came, the early rising sun Laid his light fingers on a soldier sleeping— Where a soft covering of bright green grass Over two mounds was lightly creeping; But waked him not: his was the rest eternal, Where the brown eyes reflected love supernal.



Our Christmas Hymn.

By John Dickson Bruns, M.D., of Charleston, S.C.



"Good-will and peace! peace and good-will!" The burden of the Advent song, What time the love-charmed waves grew still To hearken to the shining throng; The wondering shepherds heard the strain Who watched by night the slumbering fleece, The deep skies echoed the refrain, "Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!"

And wise men hailed the promised sign, And brought their birth-gifts from the East, Dear to that Mother as the wine That hallowed Cana's bridal feast; But what to these are myrrh or gold, And what Arabia's costliest gem, Whose eyes the Child divine behold, The blessed Babe of Bethlehem.

"Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!" They sing, the bright ones overhead; And scarce the jubilant anthems cease Ere Judah wails her first-born dead; And Rama's wild, despairing cry Fills with great dread the shuddering coast, And Rachel hath but one reply, "Bring back, bring back my loved and lost."

So, down two thousand years of doom That cry is borne on wailing winds, But never star breaks through the gloom, No cradled peace the watcher finds; And still the Herodian steel is driven, And breaking hearts make ceaseless moan, And still the mute appeal to heaven Man answers back with groan for groan.

How shall we keep our Christmas tide? With that dread past, its wounds agape, Forever walking by our side, A fearful shade, an awful shape; Can any promise of the spring Make green the faded autumn leaf? Or who shall say that time will bring Fair fruit to him who sows but grief?

Wild bells! that shake the midnight air With those dear tones that custom loves, You wake no sounds of laughter here, Nor mirth in all our silent groves; On one broad waste, by hill or flood, Of ravaged lands your music falls, And where the happy homestead stood The stars look down on roofless halls.

At every board a vacant chair Fills with quick tears some tender eye, And at our maddest sports appear Those well-loved forms that will not die. We lift the glass, our hand is stayed— We jest, a spectre rises up— And weeping, though no word is said, We kiss and pass the silent cup,

And pledge the gallant friend who keeps His Christmas-eve on Malvern's height, And him, our fair-haired boy, who sleeps Beneath Virginian snows to-night; While, by the fire, she, musing, broods On all that was and might have been, If Shiloh's dank and oozing woods Had never drunk that crimson stain.

O happy Yules of buried years! Could ye but come in wonted guise, Sweet as love's earliest kiss appears, When looking back through wistful eyes, Would seem those chimes whose voices tell His birth-night with melodious burst, Who, sitting by Samaria's well, Quenched the lorn widow's life-long thirst.

Ah! yet I trust that all who weep, Somewhere, at last, will surely find His rest, if through dark ways they keep The child-like faith, the prayerful mind; And some far Christmas morn shall bring From human ills a sweet release To loving hearts, while angels sing "Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!"