As men who labor in that mine Of Cornwall, hollowed out beneath the bed Of ocean, when a storm rolls overhead, Hear the dull booming of the world of brine Above them, and a mighty muffled roar Of winds and waters, and yet toil calmly on, And split the rock, and pile the massive ore, Or carve a niche, or shape the archd roof; So I, as calmly, weave my woof Of song, chanting the days to come, Unsilenced, though the quiet summer air Stirs with the bruit of battles, and each dawn Wakes from its starry silence to the hum Of many gathering armies. Still, In that we sometimes hear, Upon the Northern winds the voice of woe Not wholly drowned in triumph, though I know The end must crown us, and a few brief years Dry all our tears, I may not sing too gladly. To Thy will Resigned, O Lord! we cannot all forget That there is much even Victory must regret. And, therefore, not too long From the great burden of our country's wrong Delay our just release!

And, if it may be, save These sacred fields of peace From stain of patriot or of hostile blood! Oh, help us Lord! to roll the crimson flood Back on its course, and, while our banners wing Northward, strike with us! till the Goth shall cling To his own blasted altar-stones, and crave Mercy; and we shall grant it, and dictate The lenient future of his fate There, where some rotting ships and trembling quays Shall one day mark the Port which ruled the Western seas.



The Battle of Charleston Harbor.

April 7th, 1863.

By Paul H. Hayne.



I.

Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe April day, The Northman's mailed "Invincibles" steamed up fair Charleston Bay; They came in sullen file, and slow, low-breasted on the wave, Black as a midnight front of storm, and silent as the grave.



II.

A thousand warrior-hearts beat high as those dread monsters drew More closely to the game of death across the breezeless blue, And twice ten thousand hearts of those who watched the scene afar, Thrill in the awful hush that bides the battle's broadening Star!



III.

Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with rigid aspect stands, The ready linstocks firmly grasped in bold, untrembling hands, So moveless in their marbled calm, their stern heroic guise, They looked like forms of statued stone with burning human eyes!



IV.

Our banners on the outmost walls, with stately rustling fold, Flash back from arch and parapet the sunlight's ruddy gold— They mount to the deep roll of drums, and widely-echoing cheers, And then—once more, dark, breathless, hushed, wait the grim cannoneers.



V.

Onward—in sullen file, and slow, low glooming on the wave, Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet glides silent as the grave, When sudden, shivering up the calm, o'er startled flood and shore, Burst from the sacred Island Fort the thunder-wrath of yore![1]



VI.

Ha! brutal Corsairs! tho' ye come thrice-cased in iron mail, Beware the storm that's opening now, God's vengeance guides the hail! Ye strive the ruffian types of Might 'gainst law, and truth, and Right, Now quail beneath a sturdier Power, and own a mightier Might!



VII.

No empty boast! I for while we speak, more furious, wilder, higher, Dart from the circling batteries a hundred tongues of fire. The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of heaven seems rent above. Fight on! oh! knightly Gentlemen! for faith, and home, and love!



VIII.

There's not in all that line of flame, one soul that would not rise, To seize the Victor's wreath of blood, tho' Death must give the prize— There's not in all this anxious crowd that throngs the ancient Town, A maid who does not yearn for power to strike one despot down.



IX.

The strife grows fiercer! ship by ship the proud Armada sweeps, Where hot from Sumter's raging breast the volleyed lightning leaps; And ship by ship, raked, overborne, 'ere burned the sunset bloom, Crawls seaward, like a hangman's hearse bound to his felon tomb!



X.

Oh! glorious Empress of the Main! from out thy storied spires, Thou well mayst peal thy bells of joy, and light thy festal fires— Since Heaven this day hath striven for thee, hath nerved thy dauntless sons, And thou, in clear-eyed faith hast seen God's Angels near the guns!

[1] Fort Moultrie fired the first gun.



Fort Wagner.

By W. Gilmore Simms.



I.

Glory unto the gallant boys who stood At Wagner, and, unflinching, sought the van; Dealing fierce blows, and shedding precious blood, For homes as precious, and dear rights of man! They've won the meed, and they shall have the glory;— Song, with melodious memories, shall repeat The legend, which shall grow to themes for story, Told through long ages, and forever sweet!



II.

High honor to our youth—our sons and brothers, Georgians and Carolinians, where they stand! They will not shame their birthrights, or their mothers, But keep, through storm, the bulwarks of the land! They feel that they must conquer! Not to do it, Were worse than death—perdition! Should they fail, The innocent races yet unborn shall rue it, The whole world feel the wound, and nations wail!



III.

No! They must conquer in the breach or perish! Assured, in the last consciousness of breath, That love shall deck their graves, and memory cherish Their deeds, with honors that shall sweeten death! They shall have trophies in long future hours, And loving recollections, which shall be Green, as the summer leaves, and fresh as flowers, That, through all seasons, bloom eternally!



IV.

Their memories shall be monuments, to rise Next those of mightiest martyrs of the past; Beacons, when angry tempests sweep the skies, And feeble souls bend crouching to the blast! A shrine for thee, young Cheves, well devoted, Most worthy of a great, illustrious sire;— A niche for thee, young Haskell, nobly noted, When skies and seas around thee shook with fire!



V.

And others as well chronicled shall be! What though they fell with unrecorded name— They live among the archives of the free, With proudest title to undying fame! The unchisell'd marble under which they sleep, Shall tell of heroes, fearless still of fate; Not asking if their memories shall keep, But if they nobly served, and saved, the State!



VI.

For thee, young Fortress Wagner—thou shalt wear Green laurels, worthy of the names that now, Thy sister forts of Moultrie, Sumter, bear! See that thou lift'st, for aye, as proud a brow! And thou shalt be, to future generations, A trophied monument; whither men shall come In homage; and report to distant nations, A SHRINE, which foes shall never make a TOMB!

Charleston Mercury.



Sumter in Ruins.

By W. Gilmore Simms.



I.

Ye batter down the lion's den, But yet the lordly beast g'oes free; And ye shall hear his roar again, From mountain height, from lowland glen, From sandy shore and reedy fen— Where'er a band of freeborn men Rears sacred shrines to liberty.



II.

The serpent scales the eagle's nest, And yet the royal bird, in air, Triumphant wins the mountain's crest, And sworn for strife, yet takes his rest, And plumes, to calm, his ruffled breast, Till, like a storm-bolt from the west, He strikes the invader in his lair.



III.

What's loss of den, or nest, or home, If, like the lion, free to go;— If, like the eagle, wing'd to roam, We span the rock and breast the foam, Still watchful for the hour of doom, When, with the knell of thunder-boom, We bound upon the serpent foe!



IV.

Oh! noble sons of lion heart! Oh! gallant hearts of eagle wing! What though your batter'd bulwarks part, Your nest be spoiled by reptile art— Your souls, on wings of hate, shall start For vengeance, and with lightning-dart, Rend the foul serpent ere he sting!



V.

Your battered den, your shattered nest, Was but the lion's crouching-place;— It heard his roar, and bore his crest, His, or the eagle's place of rest;— But not the soul in either breast! This arms the twain, by freedom bless'd, To save and to avenge their race!

Charleston Mercury.



Morris Island.

By W. Gilmore Simms.



Oh! from the deeds well done, the blood well shed In a good cause springs up to crown the land With ever-during verdure, memory fed, Wherever freedom rears one fearless band, The genius, which makes sacred time and place, Shaping the grand memorials of a race!

The barren rock becomes a monument, The sea-shore sands a shrine; And each brave life, in desperate conflict spent, Grows to a memory which prolongs a line!

Oh! barren isle—oh! fruitless shore, Oh! realm devoid of beauty—how the light From glory's sun streams down for evermore, Hallowing your ancient barrenness with bright!

Brief dates, your lowly forts; but full of glory, Worthy a life-long story; Remembered, to be chronicled and read, When all your gallant garrisons are dead; And to be sung While liberty and letters find a tongue!

Taught by the grandsires at the ingle-blaze, Through the long winter night; Pored over, memoried well, in winter days, While youthful admiration, with delight, Hangs, breathless, o'er the tale, with silent praise; Seasoning delight with wonder, as he reads Of stubborn conflict and audacious deeds; Watching the endurance of the free and brave, Through the protracted struggle and close fight, Contending for the lands they may not save, Against the felon, and innumerous foe; Still struggling, though each rampart proves a grave. For home, and all that's dear to man below!

Earth reels and ocean rocks at every blow; But still undaunted, with a martyr's might, They make for man a new Thermopyl; And, perishing for freedom, still go free! Let but each humble islet of our coast Thus join the terrible issue to the last; And never shall the invader make his boast Of triumph, though with mightiest panoply He seeks to rend and rive, to blight and blast!



Promise of Spring.



The sun-beguiling breeze, From the soft Cuban seas, With life-bestowing kiss wakes the pride of garden bowers; And lo! our city elms, Have plumed with buds their helms, And, with tiny spears salute the coming on of flowers.

The promise of the Spring, Is in every glancing wing That tells its flight in song which shall long survive the flight; And mocking Winter's glooms, Skies, air and earth grow blooms, With change as bless'd as ever came with passage of a night!

Ah! could our hearts but share The promise rich and rare, That welcomes life to rapture in each happy fond caress, That makes each innocent thing Put on its bloom and wing, Singing for Spring to come to the realm she still would bless!

But, alas for us, no more Shall the coming hour rescore The glory, sweet and wonted, of the seasons to our souls; Even as the Spring appears, Her smiling makes our tears, While with each bitter memory the torrent o'er us rolls.

Even as our zephyrs sing That they bring us in the Spring, Even as our bird grows musical in ecstasy of flight— We see the serpent crawl, With his slimy coat o'er all, And blended with the song is the hissing of his blight.

We shudder at the blooms, Which but serve to cover tombs— At the very sweet of odors which blend venom with the breath; Sad shapes look out from trees, And in sky and earth and breeze, We behold but the aspect of a Horror worse than Death!

South Carolinian.



Spring.

By Henry Timrod.



Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air Which dwells with all things fair, Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, Is with us once again.

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns Its fragrant lamps, and turns Into a royal court with green festoons The banks of dark lagoons.

In the deep heart of every forest tree The blood is all aglee, And there's a look about the leafless bowers As if they dreamed of flowers.

Yet still on every side appears the hand Of Winter in the land, Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, Flushed by the season's dawn;

Or where, like those strange semblances we find That age to childhood bind, The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, The brown of Autumn corn.

As yet the turf is dark, although you know That, not a span below, A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, And soon will burst their tomb.

Already, here and there, on frailest stems Appear some azure gems, Small as might deck, upon a gala day, The forehead of a fay.

In gardens you may see, amid the dearth, The crocus breaking earth; And near the snowdrop's tender white and green, The violet in its screen.

But many gleams and shadows need must pass Along the budding grass, And weeks go by, before the enamored South Shall kiss the rose's mouth.

Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn In the sweet airs of morn; One almost looks to see the very street Grow purple at his feet.

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by And brings, you know not why, A feeling as when eager crowds await Before a palace gate.

Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start, If from a beech's heart A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say "Behold me! I am May!"

Ah! who would couple thoughts of war and crime With such a blessed time! Who in the west-wind's aromatic breath Could hear the call of Death!

Yet not more surely shall the Spring awake The voice of wood and brake, Than she shall rouse, for all her tranquil charms A million men to arms.

There shall be deeper hues upon her plains Than all her sunlight rains, And every gladdening influence around Can summon from the ground.

Oh! standing on this desecrated mould, Methinks that I behold, Lifting her bloody daisies up to God, Spring, kneeling on the sod,

And calling with the voice of all her rills Upon the ancient hills, To fall and crush the tyrants and the slaves Who turn her meads to graves.



Chickmauga—"The Stream of Death."

Richmond Senitnel.



Chickamuga! Chickamauga! O'er thy dark and turbid wave Rolls the death-cry of the daring, Rings the war-shout of the brave; Round thy shore the red fires flashing, Startling shot and screaming shell— Chickamauga, stream of battle, Who thy fearful tale shall tell?

Olden memories of horror, Sown by scourge of deadly plague, Long hath clothed thy circling forests With a terror vast and vague; Now to gather further vigor From the phantoms grim with gore, Hurried, by war's wilder carnage, To their graves on thy lone shore.

Long, with hearts subdued and saddened, As th' oppressor's hosts moved on, Fell the arms of freedom backward, Till our hopes had almost flown; Till outspoke stern valor's fiat— "Here th' invading wave shall stay; Here shall cease the foe's proud progress; Here be crushed his grand array!"

Then their eager hearts all throbbing, Backward flashed each battle-flag Of the veteran corps of Longstreet, And the sturdy troops of Bragg; Fierce upon the foemen turning, All their pent-up wrath breaks out In the furious battle-clangor, And the frenzied battle-shout.

Roll thy dark waves, Chickamauga, Trembles all thy ghastly shore, With the rude shock of the onset, And the tumult's horrid roar; As the Southern battle-giants Hurl their bolts of death along, Breckenridge, the iron-hearted, Cheatham, chivalric and strong:

Polk Preston—gallant Buckner, Hill and Hindman, strong in might, Cleburne, flower of manly valor, Hood, the Ajax of the fight; Benning, bold and hardy warrior, Fearless, resolute Kershaw; Mingle battle-yell and death-bolt, Volley fierce and wild hurrah!

At the volleys bleed their bodies, At the fierce shout rise their souls, While the fiery wave of vengeance On their quailing column rolls; And the parched throats of the stricken Breathe for air the roaring flame, Horrors of that hell foretasted, Who shall ever dare to name!

Borne by' those who, stiff and mangled, Paid, upon that bloody field, Direful, cringing, awe-struck homage To the sword our heroes yield; And who felt, by fiery trial, That the men who will be free. Though in conflict baffled often, Ever will unconquered be!

Learned, though long unchecked they spoil us, Dealing desolation round, Marking, with the tracks of ruin, Many a rood of Southern ground; Yet, whatever course they follow, Somewhere in their pathway flows, Dark and deep, a Chickamauga, Stream of death to vandal foes!

They have found it darkly flowing By Manassas' famous plain, And by rushing Shenandoah Met the tide of woe again; Chickahominy, immortal, By the long, ensanguined fight, Rappahannock, glorious river, Twice renowned for matchless fight.

Heed the story, dastard spoilers, Mark the tale these waters tell, Ponder well your fearful lesson, And the doom that there befell; Learn to shun the Southern vengeance, Sworn upon the votive sword, "Every stream a Chickamauga To the vile invading horde!"



In Memoriam

Of Our Right-Revered Father in God, Leonidas Polk, Lieutenant-General Confederate States Army.



Peace, troubled soul! The strife is done, This life's fierce conflicts and its woes are ended: There is no more—eternity begun, Faith merged in sight—hope with fruition blended. Peace, troubled soul! The Warrior rests upon his bier, Within his coffin calmly sleeping. His requiem the cannon peals, And heroes of a hundred fields Their last sad watch are round him keeping.

Joy, sainted soul! Within the vale Of Heaven's great temple, is thy blissful dwelling; Bathed in a light, to which the sun is pale, Archangels' hymns in endless transports swelling. Joy, sainted soul! Back to her altar which he served, The Holy Church her child is bringing. The organ's wail then dies away, And kneeling priests around him pray, As De Profundis they are singing.

Bring all the trophies, that are owed To him at once so great, so good. His Bible and his well-used sword— His snowy lawn not "stained with blood!" No! pure as when before his God, He laid its spotless folds aside, War's path of awful duty trod, And on his country's altar died!

Oh! Warrior-bishop, Church and State Sustain in thee an equal loss; But who would call thee from thy weight Of glory, back to bear life's cross! The Faith was kept—thy course was run, Thy good fight finished; hence the word, "Well done, oh! faithful child, well done, Taste thou the mercies of thy Lord!"

No dull decay nor lingering pain, By slow degrees, consumed thy health, A glowing messenger of flame Translated thee by fiery death! And we who in one common grief Are bending now beneath the rod, In this sweet thought may find relief, "Our holy father walked with God, And is not—God has taken him!"

Viola.



"Stonewall" Jackson

By H. L. Flash.



Not 'midst the lightning of the stormy fight Not in the rush upon the vandal foe, Did kingly death, with his resistless might, Lay the great leader low!

His warrior soul its earthly shackles bore In the full sunshine of a peaceful town; When all the storm, was hushed, the trusty oak That propped our cause, went down.

Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, Recording all his grand heroic deeds, Freedom herself is writhing with his wound, And all the country bleeds.

He entered not the nation's "Promised Land," At the red belching of the cannon's mouth; But broke the "House of Bondage" with his hand— The Moses of the South!

Oh, gracious God! not gainless is our loss: A glorious sunbeam gilds Thy sternest frown; And while his country staggers with the cross— He rises with the crown!



"Stonewall" Jackson.—A Dirge.



Go to thy rest, great chieftain! In the zenith of thy fame; With the proud heart stilled and frozen, No foeman e'er could tame; With the eye that met the battle As the eagle's meets the sun, Rayless-beneath its marble lid, Repose-thou mighty one!

Yet ill our cause could spare thee; And harsh the blow of fate That struck its staunchest pillar From 'neath our dome of state. Of thee, as of the Douglas, We say, with Scotland's king, "There is not one to take his place In all the knightly ring."

Thou wert the noblest captain Of all that martial host That front the haughty Northman, And put to shame his boast. Thou wert the strongest bulwark To stay the tide of fight; The name thy soldiers gave thee Bore witness of thy might!

But we may not weep above thee; This is no time for tears! Thou wouldst not brook their shedding, Oh! saint among thy peers! Couldst thou speak from yonder heaven, Above us smiling spread, Thou wouldst not have us pause, for grief, On the blood-stained path we tread!

Not—while our homes in ashes Lie smouldering on the sod! Not—while our houseless women Send up wild wails to God! Not—while the mad fanatic Strews ruin on his track! Dare any Southron give the rein To feeling, and look back!

No! Still the cry is "onward!" This is no time for tears; No I Still the word is "vengeance!" Leave ruth for coming years. We will snatch thy glorious banner From thy dead and stiffening hand, And high, 'mid battle's deadly storm, We'll bear it through the land.

And all who mark it streaming— Oh! soldier of the cross!— Shall gird them with a fresh resolve Sternly to avenge our loss; Whilst thou, enrolled a martyr, Thy sacred mission shown, Shalt lay the record of our wrongs Before the Eternal throne!



Beaufort.

By W. J. Grayson, of South Carolina.



Old home! what blessings late were yours; The gifts of peace, the songs of joy! Now, hostile squadrons seek your shores, To ravage and destroy.

The Northman comes no longer there, With soft address and measured phrase, With bated breath, and sainted air, And simulated praise.

He comes a vulture to his prey; A wolf to raven in your streets: Around on shining stream and bay Gather his bandit fleets.

They steal the pittance of the poor; Pollute the precincts of the dead; Despoil the widow of her store,— The orphan of his bread.

Crimes like their crimes—of lust and blood, No Christian land has known before; Oh, for some scourge of fire and flood, To sweep them from the shore!

Exiles from home, your people fly, In adverse fortune's hardest school; With swelling breast and flashing eye— They scorn the tyrant's rule!

Away, from all their joys away, The sports that active youth engage; The scenes where childhood loves to play, The resting-place of age.

Away, from fertile field and farm; The oak-fringed island-homes that seem To sit like swans, with matchless charm, On sea-born sound and stream.

Away, from palm-environed coast, The beach that ocean beats in vain; The Royal Port, your pride and boast, The loud-resounding main.

Away, from orange groves that glow With golden fruit or snowy flowers, Roses that never cease to blow, Myrtle and jasmine bowers.

From these afar, the hoary bead Of feeble age, the timid maid, Mothers and nurslings, all have fled, Of ruthless foes afraid.

But, ready, with avenging hand, By wood and fen, in ambush lie Your sons, a stern, determined band, Intent to do or die.

Whene'er the foe advance to dare The onset, urged by hate and wrath, Still have they found, aghast with fear, A Lion in the path.

Scourged, to their ships they wildly rush, Their shattered ranks to shield and save, And learn how hard a task to crush The spirit of the brave.

Oh, God! Protector of the right, The widows' stay, the orphans' friend, Restrain the rage of lawless might, The wronged and crushed defend!

Be guide and helper, sword and shield! From hill and vale, where'er they roam, Bring back the yeoman to his field, The exile to his home!

Pastors and scattered flocks restore; Their fanes rebuild, their altars raise; And let their quivering lips once more Rejoice in songs of praise!



The Empty Sleeve.

By Dr. J. R. Bagby, Of Virginia.



Tom, old fellow, I grieve to see The sleeve hanging loose at your side The arm you lost was worth to me Every Yankee that ever died. But you don't mind it at all; You swear you've a beautiful stump, And laugh at that damnable ball— Tom, I knew you were always a trump.

A good right arm, a nervy hand, A wrist as strong as a sapling oak, Buried deep in the Malverri sand— To laugh at that, is a sorry joke. Never again your iron grip Shall I feel in my shrinking palm— Tom, Tom, I see your trembling lip; All within is not so calm.

Well! the arm is gone, it is true; But the one that is nearest the heart Is left—and that's as good as two; Tom, old fellow, what makes you start? Why, man, she thinks that empty sleeve A badge of honor; so do I, And all of us:—I do believe The fellow is going to cry!

"She deserves a perfect man," you say; "You were not worth her in your prime:" Tom! the arm that has turned to clay, Your whole body has made sublime; For you have placed in the Malvern earth The proof and pledge of a noble life— And the rest, henceforward of higher worth, Will be dearer than all to your wife.

I see the people in the street Look at your sleeve with kindling eyes; And you know, Torn, there's naught so sweet As homage shown in mute surmise. Bravely your arm in battle strove, Freely for Freedom's sake, you gave it; It has perished—but a nation's love In proud remembrance will save it.

Go to your sweetheart, then, forthwith— You're a fool for staying so long— Woman's love you'll find no myth, But a truth; living, tender, strong. And when around her slender belt Your left is clasped in fond embrace, Your right will thrill, as if it felt, In its grave, the usurper's place.

As I look through the coming years, I see a one-armed married man; A little woman, with smiles and tears, Is helping—as hard as she can To put on his coat, to pin his sleeve, Tie his cravat, and cut his food; And I say, as these fancies I weave, "That is Tom, and the woman he wooed."

The years roll on, and then I see A wedding picture, bright and fair; I look closer, and its plain to me That is Tom with the silver hair. He gives away the lovely bride, And the guests linger, loth to leave The house of him in whom they pride— "Brave old Tom with the empty sleeve."



The Cotton-Burners' Hymn.



"On yesterday, all the cotton in Memphis, and throughout the country, was burned. Probably not less than 300,000 bales have been burned in the last three days, in West Tennessee and North Mississippi."—Memphis Appeal.



I.

Lo! where Mississippi rolls Oceanward its stream, Upward mounting, folds on folds, Flaming fire-tongues gleam; 'Tis the planters' grand oblation On the altar of the nation; 'Tis a willing sacrifice— Let the golden incense rise— Pile the Cotton to the skies! CHORUS—Lo! the sacrificial flame Gilds the starry dome of night! Nations! read the mute acclaim— 'Tis for liberty we fight! Homes! Religion! Right!



II.

Never such a golden light Lit the vaulted sky; Never sacrifice as bright, Rose to God on high: Thousands oxen, what were they To the offering we pay? And the brilliant holocaust— When the revolution's past— In the nation's songs will last! CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc.



III.

Though the night be dark above, Broken though the shield— Those who love us, those we love, Bid us never yield: Never! though our bravest bleed, And the vultures on them feed; Never! though the Serpents' race— Hissing hate and vile disgrace— By the million should menace! CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc.



IV.

Pile the Cotton to the skies; Lo! the Northmen gaze; England! see our sacrifice— See the Cotton blaze! God of nations! now to Thee, Southrons bend th' imploring knee; 'Tis our country's hour of need— Hear the mothers intercede— Hear the little children plead! CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc.



Reading the List.



"Is there any news of the war?" she said— "Only a list of the wounded and dead," Was the man's reply, Without lifting his eye To the face of the woman standing by. "'Tis the very thing—I want," she said; "Read me a list of the wounded and dead."

He read the list—'twas a sad array Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray; In the very midst, was a pause to tell Of a gallant youth, who fought so well That his comrades asked: "Who is he, pray?" "The only son of the Widow Gray," Was the proud reply Of his Captain nigh. What ails the woman standing near? Her face has the ashen hue of fear!

"Well, well, read on; is he wounded? quick! Oh God! but my heart is sorrow-sick!" "Is he wounded? No! he fell, they say, Killed outright on that fatal day." But see, the woman has swooned away!

Sadly she opened her eyes to the light; Slowly recalled the events of the fight; Faintly she murmured: "Killed outright! It has cost me the life of my only son; But the battle is fought, and the victory won; The will of the Lord, let it be done!"

God pity the cheerless Widow Gray, And send from the halls of eternal day, The light of His peace to illumine her way!



His Last Words.



"A few moments before his death (Stonewall Jackson) he called out in his delirium: 'Order A.P. Hill to prepare for action. Pass the infantry rapidly to the front. Tell Major Hawks—.' Here the sentence was left unfinished. Bat, soon after, a sweet smile overspread his face, and he murmured quietly, with an air of relief: 'Let us cross the river and rest under the shade of the trees.' These were his last words; and, without any expression of pain, or sign of struggle, his spirit passed away."

I.

Come, let us cross the river, and rest beneath the trees, And list the merry leaflets at sport with every breeze; Our rest is won by fighting, and Peace awaits us there. Strange that a cause so blighting produces fruit so fair!



II.

Come, let us cross the river, those that have gone before, Crush'd in the strife for freedom, await on yonder shore; So bright the sunshine sparkles, so merry hums the breeze, Come, let us cross the river, and rest beneath the trees.



III.

Come, let us cross the river, the stream that runs so dark: 'Tis none but cowards quiver, so let us all embark. Come, men with hearts undaunted, we'll stem the tide with ease, We'll cross the flowing river, and rest beneath the trees.



IV.

Come, let us cross the river, the dying hero cried, And God, of life the giver, then bore him o'er the tide. Life's wars for him are over, the warrior takes his ease, There, by the flowing river, at rest beneath the trees.



Charge of Hagood's Brigade.

Weldon Railroad, August 21, 1864.



The following lines were written in the summer of 1864, immediately after the charge referred to in them, which was always considered by the brigade as their most desperate encounter.

Scarce seven hundred men they stand In tattered, rude array, A remnant of that gallant band, Who erstwhile held the sea-girt strand Of Morris' isle, with iron hand 'Gainst Yankees' hated sway.

SECESSIONVILLE their banner claims, And SUMTER, held 'mid smoke and flames, And the dark battle on the streams Of POCOTALIGO: And WALTHALL'S JUNCTION'S hard-earned fight, And DREWRY'S BLUFF'S embattled height, Whence, at the gray dawn of the light, They rushed upon the foe.

Tattered and torn those banners now, But not less proud each lofty brow, Untaught as yet to yield: With mien unblenched, unfaltering eye, Forward, where bombshells shrieking fly Flecking with smoke the azure sky On Weldon's fated field.

Sweeps from the woods the bold array, Not theirs to falter in the fray, No men more sternly trained than they To meet their deadly doom: While, from a hundred throats agape, A hundred sulphurous flames escape, Round shot, and canister, and grape, The thundering cannon's boom!

Swift, on their flank, with fearful crash Shrapnel and ball commingling clash, And bursting shells, with lurid flash, Their dazzled sight confound: Trembles the earth beneath their feet, Along their front a rattling sheet Of leaden hail concentric meet, And numbers strew the ground.

On, o'er the dying and the dead, O'er mangled limb and gory head, With martial look, with martial tread, March Hagood's men to bloody bed, Honor their sole reward; Himself doth lead their battle line, Himself those banners guard.

They win the height, those gallant few, A fiercer struggle to renew, Resolved as gallant men to do Or sink in glory's shroud; But scarcely gain its stubborn crest, Ere, from the ensign's murdered breast, An impious foe has dared to wrest That banner proud.

Upon him, Hagood, in thy might! Flash on thy soul th' immortal light Of those brave deeds that blazon bright Our Southern Cross. He dies. Unfurl its folds again, Let it wave proudly o'er the plain; The dying shall forget their pain, Count not their loss.

Then, rallying to your chieftain's call, Ploughed through by cannon-shot and ball Hemmed in, as by a living wall, Cleave back your way. Those bannered deeds their souls inspire, Borne, amid sheets of forkd fire, By the Two Hundred who retire Of that array.

Ah, Carolina! well the tear May dew thy cheek; thy clasped hands rear In passion, o'er their tombless bier, Thy fallen chivalry! Malony, mirror of the brave, And Sellers lie in glorious grave; No prouder fate than theirs, who gave Their lives for Liberty.



Carolina.

April 14, 1861.

By John A. Wagener, of S.C.



Carolina! Carolina! Noble name in State and story, How I love thy truthful glory, As I love the blue sky o'er ye, Carolina evermore!

Carolina! Carolina! Land of chivalry unfearing, Daughters fair beyond comparing, Sons of worth, and noble daring, Carolina evermore!

Carolina! Carolina! Soft thy clasp in loving greeting, Plenteous board and kindly meeting, All thy pulses nobly beating, Carolina evermore!

Carolina! Carolina! Green thy valleys, bright thy heaven, Bold thy streams through forest riven, Bright thy laurels, hero-given, Carolina evermore!

Carolina! Carolina! Holy name, and dear forever, Never shall thy childen, never, Fail to strike with grand endeavor, Carolina evermore!



Savannah.

By Alethea S. Burroughs.



Thou hast not drooped thy stately head, Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed! Not like a lamb to slaughter led, But with the lion's monarch tread, Thou eomest to thy battle bed, Savannah! oh, Savannah!

Thine arm of flesh is girded strong; The blue veins swell beneath thy wrong; To thee, the triple cords belong, Of woe, and death, and shameless wrong, And spirit vaunted long, too long! Savannah! oh, Savannah!

No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair; Only the martyrs' blood is there; It gleams upon thy bosom bier, It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer, And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear, Savannah! oh, Savannah!

Thy clean white hand is opened wide For weal or woe, thou Freedom Bride; The sword-sheath sparkles at thy side, Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide, Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide, Savannah! oh, Savannah!

What though the heavy storm-cloud lowers— Still at thy feet the old oak towers; Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers, And things of beauty, love, and flowers Are smiling o'er this land of ours, My sunny home, Savannah!

There is no film before thy sight— Thou seest woe, and death, and night— And blood upon thy banner bright; But in thy full wrath's kindled might, What carest thou for woe, or night? My rebel home, Savannah!

Come—for the crown is on thy head! Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed, Not like a lamb to slaughter led, But with the lion's monarch tread, Oh! come unto thy battle bed, Savannah! oh, Savannah!



"Old Betsy."

By John Killum.



Come, with the rifle so long in your keeping, Clean the old gun up and hurry it forth; Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking, Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North.

Hear ye the yelp of the North-wolf resounding, Scenting the blood of the warm-hearted South; Quick! or his villainous feet will be bounding Where the gore of our maidens may drip from his mouth.

Oft in the wildwood "Old Bess" has relieved you, When the fierce bear was cut down in his track— If at that moment she never deceived you, Trust her to-day with this ravenous pack.

Then come with the rifle so long in your keeping, Clean the old girl up and hurry her forth; Better to die while "Old Betsy" is speaking, Than live with arms folded, the slave of the North.



Awake—Arise!

By G. W. Archer, M. D.



Sons of the South—awake—arise! A million foes sweep down amain, Fierce hatred gleaming in their eyes, And fire and rapine in their train, Like savage Hun and merciless Dane! "We come as brothers!" Trust them not! By all that's dear in heaven and earth, By every tie that hath its birth Within your homes—around your hearth; Believe me, 'tis a tyrant's plot, Worse for the fair and sleek disguise— A traitor in a patriot's cloak! "Your country's good Demands your blood!" Was it a fiend from hell that spoke?

They point us to the Stripes and Stars; (Our banner erst—the despot's now!) But let not thoughts of by-gone wars, When beat we back the common foe, And felled them fast and shamed them so, Divide us at this fearful hour; But think of dungeons and of chains— Think of your violated fanes— Of your loved homestead's gory stains— Eternal thraldom for your dower! No love of country fires their breasts— The fell fanatics fain would free A grovelling race, And in their place Would fetter us with fiendish glee!

Sons of the South—awake—awake! And strike for rights full dear as those For which our struggling sires did shake Earth's proudest throne—while freedom rose, Baptized in blood of braggart foes. Awake—that hour hath come again! Strike! as ye look to Heaven's high throne— Strike! for the Christian patriot's crown— Strike! in the name of Washington, Who taught you once to rend the chain, Smiles now from heaven upon our cause, So like his own. His spirit moves Through every fight, And lends its might To every heart that freedom loves.

Ye beauteous of the sunny land! Unmatched your charms in all the earth, 'Neath freedom's banner take your stand; And, though ye strike not, prove your worth, As wont in days of joy and mirth: Lavish your praises on the brave— Pray when the battle fiercely lowers— Smile when the victory is ours— Frown on the wretch who basely cowers— Mourn o'er each fallen hero's grave! Lend thus your favors whilst we smite! Full soon we'll crush this vandal host!— With woman's charms To nerve their arms, Oh! when have men their freedom lost!



General Albert Sidney Johnston.

By Mary Jervy, of Charleston.



In thickest fight triumphantly he fell, While into victory's arms he led us on; A death so glorious our grief should quell: We mourn him, yet his battle-crown is won.

No slanderous tongue can vex his spirit now, No bitter taunts can stain his blood-bought fame Immortal honor rests upon his brow, And noble memories cluster round his name.

For hearts shall thrill and eyes g-row dim with tears, To read the story of his touching fate; How in his death the gallant soldier wears The crown that came for earthly life too late.

Ye people! guard his memory—sacred keep The garlands green above his hero-grave; Yet weep, for praise can never wake his sleep, To tell him he is shrined among the brave!



Eulogy of the Dead.

By B. F. Porter, of Alabama.



"Weep not for the dead; neither bemoan him"—Jeremiah.

Oh! weep not for the dead, Whose blood, for freedom shed, Is hallowed evermore! Who on the battle-field Gould die—but never yield! Oh, bemoan them never more— They live immortal in their gore!

Oh, what is it to die Midst shouts of victory, Our rights and homes defending! Oh! what were fame and life Gained in that basest strife For tyrants' power contending, Our country's bosom rending!

Oh! dead of red Manassah! Oh! dead of Shiloh's fray! Oh! victors of the Richmond field! Dead on your mother's breast, You live in glorious rest; Each on[1] his honored shield, Immortal in each bloody field!

Oh! sons of noble mothers! Oh! youth of maiden lovers! Oh! husbands of chaste wives! Though asleep in beds of gore, You return, oh! never more; Still immortal are your lives! Immortal mothers! lovers! wives!

How blest is he who draws His sword in freedom's cause! Though dead on battle-field, Forever to his tomb Shall youthful heroes come, Their hearts for freedom steeled, And learn to die on battle-field.

As at Thermopyl, Grecian child of liberty; Swears to despot ne'er to yield— Here, by our glorious dead, Let's revenge the blood they've shed, Or die on bloody field, By the sons who scorned to yield!

Oh! mothers! lovers! wives! Oh! weep no more—our lives Are our country's evermore! More glorious in your graves, Than if living Lincoln's slaves, Ye will perish never more, Martyred on our fields of gore!

[1] The Grecian mother, on sending her son to battle, pointing to his shield, said—"With it, or on it."



The Beaufort Exile's Lament.



Now chant me a dirge for the Isles of the Sea, And sing the sad wanderer's psalm— Ye women and children in exile that flee From the land of the orange and palm.

Lament for your homes, for the house of your God, Now the haunt of the vile and the low; Lament for the graves of your fathers, now trod By the foot of the Puritan foe!

No longer for thee, when the sables of night Are fading like shadows away, Does the mocking-bird, drinking the first beams of light, Praise God for the birth of a day.

No longer for thee, when the rays are now full, Do the oaks form an evergreen glade; While the drone of the locust overhead, seemed to lull The cattle that rest in the shade.

No longer for thee does the soft-shining moon Silver o'er the green waves of the bay; Nor at evening, the notes of the wandering loon Bid farewell to the sun's dying ray.

Nor when night drops her pall over river and shore, And scatters eve's merry-voiced throng, Does there rise, keeping time to the stroke of the oar, The wild chant of the sacred boat-song.

Then the revellers would cease ere the red wine they'd quaff, The traveller would pause on his way; And maidens would hush their low silvery laugh, To list to the negro's rude lay.

"Going home! going home!" methinks I now hear At the close of each solemn refrain; 'Twill be many a day, aye, and many a year, Ere ye'll sing that dear word "Home" again.

Your noble sons slain, on the battle-field lie, Your daughters' mid strangers now roam; Your aged and helpless in poverty sigh O'er the days when they once had a home.

"Going home! going home!" for the exile alone Can those words sweep the chords of the soul, And raise from the grave the loved ones who are gone, As the tide-waves of time backward roll.

"Going home! going home!" Ah! how many who pine, Dear Beaufort, to press thy green soul, Ere then will have passed to shores brighter than thine— Will have gone home at last to their God!



Somebody's Darling.

By Marie La Coste, of Georgia.



Into a ward of the whitewashed halls, Where the dead and the dying lay— Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, Somebody's darling was borne one day— Somebody's darling, so young and so brave! Wearing yet on his sweet, pale face— Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave— The lingering light of his boyhood's grace!

Matted and damp are the curls of gold Kissing the snow of that fair young brow, Pale are the lips of delicate mould— Somebody's darling is dying now. Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow Brush his wandering waves of gold; Cross his hands on his bosom now— Somebody's darling is still and cold.

Kiss him once for somebody's sake, Murmur a prayer soft and low— One bright curl from its fair mates take— They were somebody's pride you know. Somebody's hand hath rested there; Was it a mother's, soft and white? Or have the lips of a sister fair— Been baptized in their waves of light?

God knows best! He has somebody's love; Somebody's heart enshrined him there— Somebody wafted his name above, Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand! Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay— Somebody clung to his parting hand.

Somebody's watching and waiting for him, Yearning to hold him again to her heart; And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, And the smiling child-like lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead— Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; Carve on the wooden slab o'er his head— "Somebody's darling slumbers here."



John Pegram,

Fell at the Head of His Division, Feb. 6th, 1865, tat XXXIII.

By W. Gordon McCabe.



What shall we say, now, of our gentle knight, Or how express the measure of our woe, For him who rode the foremost in the fight, Whose good blade flashed so far amid the foe?

Of all his knightly deeds what need to tell?— That good blade now lies fast within its sheath; What can we do but point to where he fell, And, like a soldier, met a soldier's death?

We sorrow not as those who have no hope; For he was pure in heart as brave in deed— God pardon us, if blindly we should grope, And love be questioned by the hearts that bleed.

And yet—oh! foolish and of little faith! We cannot choose but weep our useless tears; We loved him so; we never dreamed that death Would dare to touch him in his brave young years.

Ah! dear, browned face, so fearless and so bright! As kind to friend as thou wast stern to foe— No more we'll see thee radiant in the fight, The eager eyes—the flush on cheek and brow!

No more we'll greet the lithe, familiar form, Amid the surging smoke, with deaf'ning cheer; No more shall soar above the iron storm, Thy ringing voice in accents sweet and clear.

Aye! he has fought the fight and passed away— Our grand young leader smitten in the strife! So swift to seize the chances of the fray, And careless only of his noble life.

He is not dead, but sleepeth! well we know The form that lies to-day beneath the sod, Shall rise that time the golden bugles blow, And pour their music through the courts of God.

And there amid our great heroic dead— The war-worn sons of God, whose work is done— His face shall shine, as they with stately tread, In grand review, sweep past the jasper throne.

Let not our hearts be troubled! Few and brief His days were here, yet rich in love and faith: Lord, we believe, help thou our unbelief, And grant thy servants such a life and death!



Captives Going Home.



No flaunting banners o'er them wave, No arms flash back the sun's bright ray, No shouting crowds around them throng, No music cheers them on their way: They're going home. By adverse fate Compelled their trusty swords to sheathe; True soldiers they, even though disarmed— Heroes, though robbed of victory's wreath.

Brave Southrons! 'Tis with sorrowing hearts We gaze upon them through our tears, And sadly feel how vain were all Their heroic deeds through weary years; Yet 'mid their enemies they move With firm, bold step and dauntless mien: Oh, Liberty! in every age, Such have thy chosen heroes been.

Going home! Alas, to them the words Bring visions fraught with gloom and woe: Since last they saw those cherished homes The legions of the invading foe Have swept them, simoon-like, along, Spreading destruction with the wind! "They found a garden, but they left A howling wilderness behind."

Ah! in those desolated homes To which the "fate of war has come," Sad is the welcome—poor the feast— That waits the soldier's coming home; Yet loving ones will round him throng, With smiles more tender, if less gay, And joy will brighten pallid cheeks At sight of the dear boys in gray.

Aye, give them welcome home, fair South, For you they've made a deathless name; Bright through all after-time will glow The glorious record of their fame. They made a nation. What, though soon Its radiant sun has seemed to set; The past has shown what they can do, The future holds bright promise yet.



The Heights of Mission Ridge.

By J. Augustine Signaigo.



When the foes, in conflict heated, Battled over road and bridge, While Bragg sullenly retreated From the heights of Mission Ridge— There, amid the pines and wildwood, Two opposing colonels fell, Who had schoolmates been in childhood, And had loved each other well.

There, amid the roar and rattle, Facing Havoc's fiery breath, Met the wounded two in battle, In the agonies of death. But they saw each other reeling On the dead and dying men, And the old time, full of feeling, Came upon them once again.

When that night the moon came creeping, With its gold streaks, o'er the slain, She beheld two soldiers, sleeping, Free from every earthly pain. Close beside the mountain heather, Where the rocks obscure the sand, They had died, it seems, together, As they clasped each other's hand.



"Our Left at Manassas."



From dawn to dark they stood, That long midsummer's day! While fierce and fast The battle-blast Swept rank on rank away!

From dawn to dark, they fought With legions swept and cleft, While black and wide, The battle-tide Poured ever on our "Left!"

They closed each ghastly gap! They dressed each shattered rank They knew, how well! That Freedom fell With that exhausted flank!

"Oh! for a thousand men, Like these that melt away!" And down they came, With steel and flame, Four thousand to the fray!

They left the laggard train; The panting steam might stay; And down they came, With steel and flame, Head-foremost to the fray!

Right through the blackest cloud Their lightning-path they cleft! Freedom and Fame With triumph came To our immortal Left.

Ye! of your living, sure! Ye! of your dead, bereft! Honor the brave Who died to save Your all, upon our Left.



On to Richmond.

After Southey's "March to Moscow."

By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.



Major-General Scott An order had got To push on the columns to Richmond; For loudly went forth, From all parts of the North, The cry that an end of the war must be made In time for the regular yearly Fall Trade: Mr. Greeley spoke freely about the delay, The Yankees "to hum" were all hot for the fray; The chivalrous Grow Declared they were slow, And therefore the order To march from the border And make an excursion to Richmond. Major-General Scott Most likely was not Very loth to obey this instruction, I wot; In his private opinion The Ancient Dominion Deserved to be pillaged, her sons to be shot, And the reason is easily noted; Though this part of the earth Had given him birth, And medals and swords, Inscribed with fine words, It never for Winfield had voted. Besides, you must know that our First of Commanders Had sworn, quite as hard as the Army in Flanders, With his finest of armies and proudest of navies, To wreak his old grudge against Jefferson Davis. Then "forward the column," he said to McDowell; And the Zouaves, with a shout, Most fiercely cried out, "To Richmond or h—ll" (I omit here the vowel), And Winfield, he ordered his carriage and four, A dashing turn-out, to be brought to the door, For a pleasant excursion to Richmond. Major-General Scott Had there on the spot A splendid array To plunder and slay; In the camp he might boast Such a numerous host, As he never had yet In the battle-field set; Every class and condition of Northern society Were in for the trip, a most varied variety: In the camp he might hear every lingo in vogue, "The sweet German accent, the rich Irish brogue." The buthiful boy From the banks of the Shannon, Was there to employ His excellent cannon; And besides the long files of dragoons and artillery. The Zouaves and Hussars, All the children of Mars, There were barbers and cooks And writers of books,— The chef de cuisine with his French bills of fare, And the artists to dress the young officers' hair. And the scribblers all ready at once to prepare An eloquent story Of conquest and glory; And servants with numberless baskets of Sillery, Though Wilson, the Senator, followed the train, At a distance quite safe, to "conduct the champagne:" While the fields were so green and the sky was so blue, There was certainly nothing more pleasant to do On this pleasant excursion to Richmond. In Congress the talk, as I said, was of action, To crush out instanter the traitorous faction. In the press, and the mess, They would hear nothing less Than to make the advance, spite of rhyme or of reason, And at once put an end to the insolent treason. There was Greeley, And Ely, The bloodthirsty Grow, And Hickman (the rowdy, not Hickman the beau), And that terrible Baker Who would seize on the South, every acre, And Webb, who would drive us all into the Gulf, or Some nameless locality smelling of sulphur; And with all this bold crew Nothing would do, While the fields were so green and the sky was so blue, But to march on directly to Richmond.

Then the gallant McDowell Drove madly the rowel Of spur that had never been "won" by him, In the flank of his steed, To accomplish a deed, Such as never before had been done by him; And the battery called Sherman's Was wheeled into line, While the beer-drinking Germans, From Neckar and Rhine, With minie and yager, Came on with a swagger, Full of fury and lager, (The day and the pageant were equally fine.) Oh! the fields were so green and the sky was so blue, Indeed 'twas a spectacle pleasant to view, As the column pushed onward to Richmond.

Ere the march was begun, In a spirit of fun, General Scott in a speech Said this army should teach The Southrons the lesson the laws to obey, And just before dusk of the third or fourth day, Should joyfully march into Richmond.

He spoke of their drill And their courage and skill, And declared that the ladies of Richmond would rave O'er such matchless perfection, and gracefully wave In rapture their delicate kerchiefs in air At their morning parades on the Capitol Square. But alack! and alas! Mark what soon came to pass, When this army, in spite of his flatteries, Amid war's loudest thunder Must stupidly blunder Upon those accursed "masked batteries." Then Beauregard came, Like a tempest of flame, To consume them in wrath On their perilous path; And Johnston bore down in a whirlwind to sweep Their ranks from the field Where their doom had been sealed, As the storm rushes over the face of the deep; While swift on the centre our President pressed. And the foe might descry In the glance of his eye The light that once blazed upon Diomed's crest. McDowell! McDowell! weep, weep for the day. When the Southrons you meet in their battle array; To your confident hosts with its bullets and steel 'Twas worse than Culloden to luckless Lochiel. Oh! the generals were green and old Scott is now blue, And a terrible business, McDowell, to you, Was that pleasant excursion to Richmond.

Richmond Whig.



Turner Ashby.

By John R. Thompson, of Virginia



To the brave all homage render, Weep, ye skies of June! With a radiance pure and tender, Shine, oh saddened moon! "Dead upon the field of glory," Hero fit for song and story, Lies our bold dragoon!

Well they learned, whose hands have slain him, Braver, knightlier foe Never fought with Moor nor Paynim— Rode at Templestowe; With a mien how high and joyous, 'Gainst the hordes that would destroy us, Went he forth we know.

Never more, alas I shall sabre Gleam around his crest; Fought his fight, fulfilled his labor, Stilled his manly breast; All unheard sweet nature's cadence, Trump of fame and voice of maidens— Now he takes his rest.

Earth, that all too soon hath bound him? Gently wrap his clay; Linger lovingly around him, Light of dying day; Softly fall the summer showers, Birds and bees among the flowers Make the gloom seem gay.

There, throughout the coming ages, When his sword is rust, And his deeds in classic pages; Mindful of her trust, Shall Virginia, bending lowly, Still a ceaseless vigil holy Keep above his dust.



Captain Latane.

By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.



The combat raged not long; but ours the day, And through the hosts which compassed us around Our little band rode proudly on its way, Leaving one gallant spirit, glory crowned, Unburied on the field he died to gain; Single, of all his men, among the hostile slain!

One moment at the battle's edge he stood, Hope's halo, like a helmet, round his hair— The next, beheld him dabbled in his blood, Prostrate in death; and yet in death how fair! And thus he passed, through the red gates of strife, From earthly crowns and palms, to an eternal life.

A brother bore his body from the field, And gave it into strangers' hands, who closed His calm blue eyes, on earth forever sealed, And tenderly the slender limbs composed; Strangers, but sisters, who, with Mary's love, Sat by the open tomb and, weeping, looked above.

A little girl strewed roses on his bier, Pale roses—not more stainless than his soul, Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere, That blossomed with good actions—brief, but whole. The aged matron, with the faithful slave, Approached with reverent steps the hero's lowly grave.

No man of God might read the burial rite Above the rebel—thus declared the foe, Who blanched before him in the deadly fight; But woman's voice, in accents soft and low, Trembling with pity, touched with pathos, read Over his hallowed dust, the ritual for the dead!

"'Tis sown in weakness; it is raised in power." Softly the promise floated on the air, Arid the sweet breathings of the sunset hour, Come back responsive to the mourner's prayer. Gently they laid him underneath the sod, And left him with his fame, his country, and his God.

We should not weep for him! His deeds endure; So young, so beautiful, so brave—he died As he would wish to die. The past secure, Whatever yet of sorrow may betide Those who still linger by the stormy shore; Change cannot hurt him now, nor fortune reach him more.

And when Virginia, leaning on her spear, Vitrix et vidua, the conflict done, Shall raise her maild hand to wipe the tear That starts, as she recalls each martyr son; No prouder memory her breast shall sway Than thine—the early lost—lamented Lat-a-n!



The Men.

By Maurice Bell.



In the dusk of the forest shade A sallow and dusty group reclined; Gallops a horseman up the glade— "Where will I your leader find? Tidings I bring from the morning's scout— I've borne them o'er mound, and moor, and fen." "Well, sir, stay not hereabout, Here are only a few of 'the men.'

"Here no collar has bar or star, No rich lacing adorns a sleeve; Further on our officers are, Let them your report receive. Higher up, on the hill up there, Overlooking this shady glen. There are their quarters—don't stop here, We are only some of 'the men.'

"Yet stay, courier, if you bear Tidings that the fight is near; Tell them we're ready, and that where They wish us to be we'll soon appear; Tell them only to let us know Where to form our ranks, and when; And we'll teach the vaunting foe That they've met a few of 'the men.'

"We're the men, though our clothes are worn— We're the men, though we wear no lace— We're the men, who the foe hath torn, And scattered their ranks in dire disgrace; We're the men who have triumphed before— We're the men who will triumph again; For the dust, and the smoke, and the cannon's roar, And the clashing bayonets—'we're the men.'

"Ye who sneer at the battle-scars, Of garments faded, and soiled and bare, Yet who have for the 'stars and bars' Praise, and homage, and dainty fare; Mock the wearers and pass them on, Refuse them kindly word—and then Know, if your freedom is ever won By human agents—these are the men!"



"A Rebel Soldier Killed in the Trenches before Petersburg, Va., April 15, 1865."

By a Kentucky Girl.



Killed in the trenches! How cold and bare The inscription graved on the white card there. 'Tis a photograph, taken last Spring, they say, Ere the smoke of battle had cleared away— Of a rebel soldier—just as he fell, When his heart was pierced by a Union shell; And his image was stamped by the sunbeam's ray, As he lay in the trenches that April day.

Oh God! Oh God! How my woman's heart Thrills with a quick, convulsive pain, As I view, unrolled by the magic of Art, One dreadful scene from the battle-plain:— White as the foam of the storm-tossed wave, Lone as the rocks those billows lave— Gray sky above—cold clay beneath— A gallant form lies stretched in death!

With his calm face fresh on the trampled clay, And the brave hands clasped o'er the manly breast: Save the sanguine stains on his jacket gray, We might deem him taking a soldier's rest. Ah no! Too red is that crimson tide— Too deeply pierced that wounded side; Youth, hope, love, glory—manhood's pride— Have all in vain Death's bolt defied.

His faithful carbine lies useless there, As it dropped from its master's nerveless ward; And the sunbeams glance on his waving hair Which the fallen cap has ceased to guard— Oh Heaven! spread o'er it thy merciful shield, No more to my sight be the battle revealed! Oh fiercer than tempest—grim Hades as dread— On woman's eye flashes the field of the dead!

The scene is changed: In a quiet room, Far from the spot where the lone corse lies, A mother kneels in the evening gloom To offer her nightly sacrifice. The noon is past, and the day is done, She knows that the battle is lost or won— Who lives? Who died? Hush! be thou still! The boy lies dead on the trench-barred hill.



Battle of Hampton Roads.

By Ossian D. Gorman.



Ne'er had a scene of beauty smiled On placid waters 'neath the sun, Like that on Hampton's watery plain, The fatal morn the fight begun. Far toward the silvery Sewell shores, Below the guns of Craney Isle, Were seen our fleet advancing fast, Beneath the sun's auspicious smile.

Oh, fatal sight! the hostile hordes Of Newport camp spread dire alarms: The Cumberland for fight prepares— The fierce marines now rush to arms. The Merrimac, strong cladded o'er, In quarters close begins her fire, Nor fears the rushing hail of shot, And deadly missiles swift and dire; But, rushing on 'mid smoke and flame, And belching thunder long and loud, Salutes the ship with bow austere, And then withdraws in wreaths of cloud.

The work is done. The frigate turns In agonizing, doubtful poise— She sinks, she sinks! along the deck Is heard a shrieking, wailing noise. Engulfed beneath those placid waves Disturbed by battle's onward surge, The crew is gone; the vessel sleeps, And whistling bombshells sing her dirge.

The battle still is raging fierce: The Congress, "high and dry" aground, Maintains in vain her boasted power, For now the gunboats flock around, With "stars and bars" at mainmast reared, And pour their lightning on the main, While Merrimac, approaching fast Sends forth her shell and hot-shot rain.

Meantime the Jamestown, gallant boat, Engages strong redoubts at land— While Patrick Henry glides along, To board the Congress, still astrand. This done, we turn intently on The Minnesota, which replies, With whizzing shell to Teuser's gun, Whose booming cleaves the distant skies. The naval combat sounds anew; The hostile fleets are not withdrawn, Though night is closing earth and sea In twilight's pale and mystic dawn. Strange whistling noises fill the air; The powdered smoke looks dark as night, And deadly, lurid flames, pour forth Their radiance on the missiles' flight; Grand picture on the noisy waves! The breezy zephyrs onward roam, And echoing volleys float afar, Disturbing Neptune's coral home. The victory's ours, and let the world Record Buchanan's[1] name with pride; The crew is brave, the banner bright, That ruled the day when Hutter[2] died.

[1] Commander of the "Merrimac."

[2] Midshipman on the "Patrick Henry."

Macon Daily Telegraph.



Is This a Time to Dance?



The breath of evening' sweeps the plain, And sheds its perfume in the dell, But on its wings are sounds of pain, Sad tones that drown the echo's swell; And yet we hear a mirthful call, Fair pleasure smiles with beaming glance, Gay music sounds in the joyous hall: Oh God! is this a time to dance?

Sad notes, as if a spirit sighed, Float from the crimson battle-plain, As if a mighty spirit cried In awful agony and pain: Our friends we know there suffering lay, Our brothers, too, perchance, And in reproachful accents say, Loved ones, is this a time to dance?

Oh, lift your festal robes on high! The human gore that flows around Will stain their hues with crimson dye; And louder let your music sound To drown the dying warrior's cry! Let sparkling wine your joy enhance Forget that blood has tinged its dye, And quicker urge the maniac dance.

But stop! the floor beneath your feet Gives back a coffin's hollow moan, And every strain of music sweet, Wafts forth a dying soldier's groan. Oh, sisters! who have brothers dear Exposed to every battle's chance, Brings dark Remorse no forms of fear, To fright you from the heartless dance?

Go, fling your festal robes away! Go, don the mourner's sable veil! Go, bow before your God, and pray! If yet your prayers may aught avail. Go, face the fearful form of Death! And trembling meet his chilling glance, And then, for once, with truthful breath, Answer, Is this a time to dance?



"The Maryland Line."

By J.D. M'Cabe, Jr.



The Maryland regiments in the Confederate army have adopted the title of "The Maryland Line," which was so heroically sustained by their patriot sires of the first Revolution, and which the deeds of Marylanders at Manassas, show that the patriot Marylanders of this second Revolution are worthy to bear.



By old Potomac's rushing tide, Our bayonets are gleaming; And o'er the bounding waters wide We gaze, while tears are streaming. The distant hills of Maryland Rise sadly up before us— And tyrant bands have chained our laud, Our mother proud that bore us.

Our proud old mother's queenly head Is bowed in subjugation; With her children's blood her soil is red, And fiends in exultation Taunt her with shame as they bind her chains, While her heart is torn with anguish; Old mother, on famed Manassas' plains Our vengeance did not languish.

We thought of your wrongs as on we rushed, 'Mid shot and shell appalling; We heard your voice as it upward gush'd, From the Maryland life-blood falling. No pity we knew! Did they mercy show When they bound the mother that bore us? But we scattered death 'mid the dastard foe Till they, shrieking, fled before us.

We mourn for our brothers brave that fell On that field so stern and gory; But their spirits rose with our triumph yell To the heavenly realms of glory. And their bodies rest on the hard-won field— By their love so true and tender, We'll keep the prize they would not yield, We'll die, but we'll not surrender.



The Virginians of the Shenandoah Valley.

"Sic Jurat."

By Frank Ticknor, M.D., of Georgia.



The knightliest of the knightly race Who, since the clays of old, Have kept the lamp of chivalry Alight in hearts of gold; The kindliest of the kindly band Who rarely hated ease, Yet rode with Smith around the land, And Raleigh o'er the seas;

Who climbed the blue Virginia hills, Amid embattled foes, And planted there, in valleys fair, The lily and the rose; Whose fragrance lives in many lands, Whose beauty stars the earth, And lights the hearths of thousand homes With loveliness and worth,—

We feared they slept!—the sons who kept The names of noblest sires, And waked not, though the darkness crept Around their vigil fires; But still the Golden Horse-shoe Knights Their "Old Dominion" keep: The foe has found the enchanted ground, But not a knight asleep.

Torch-Hall, Georgia.



Sonnet.—The Avatar of Hell.

Charleston Mercury.



Six thousand years of commune, God with man,— Two thousand years of Ohrist; yet from such roots, Immortal, earth reaps only bitterest fruits! The fiends rage now as when they first began! Hate, Lust, Greed, Vanity, triumphant still, Yell, shout, exult, and lord o'er human will! The sun moves back! The fond convictions felt, That, in the progress of the race, we stood, Two thousand years of height above the flood Before the day's experience sink and melt, As frost beneath the fire! and what remains Of all our grand ideals and great gains, With Goth, Hun, Vandal, warring in their pride, While the meek Christ is hourly crucified!

Pax.



"Stonewall" Jackson's Way.



These verses, according to the newspaper account, may have been found in the bosom of a dead rebel, after one of Jackson's battles in the Shenandoah valley; but we are pleased to state that the author of them is a still living rebel, and able to write even better things.

Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails; Stir up the camp-fire bright; No matter if the canteen fails, We'll make a roaring night. Here Shenandoah brawls along, Here burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, To swell the brigade's rousing song, Of "Stonewall Jackson's way."

We see him now—the old slouched hat Cocked o'er his eye askew— The shrewd dry smile—the speech so pat, So calm, so blunt, so true. The "Blue Light Elder" knows 'em well: Says he, "That's Banks; he's fond of shell. Lord save his soul! we'll give him ——" well That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."

Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Caps off! Old "Blue Light's" going to pray. Strangle the fool that dares to scoff! Attention! it's his way! Appealing from his native sod In forma pauperis to God, "Lay bare thine arm! Stretch forth thy rod! Amen!" That's Stonewall's way.

He's in the saddle now: Fall in! Steady! The whole brigade! Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win His way out, ball and blade. What matter if our shoes are worn? What matter if our feet are torn? Quick step! we're with him before dawn! That's Stonewall Jackson's way!

The sun's bright lances rout the mists Of morning—and, by George! Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists, Hemmed in an ugly gorge. Pope and his Yankees, whipped before: "Bayonets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar; "Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score, In Stonewall Jackson's way!"

Ah, maiden! wait, and watch, and yearn, For news of Stonewall's band! Ah, widow! read—with eyes that burn, That ring upon thy hand! Ah! wife, sew on, pray on, hope on: Thy life shall not be all forlorn. The foe had better ne'er been born, That gets in Stonewall's way.



The Silent March.

On one occasion during the war in Virginia, General Lee was lying asleep by the wayside, when an army of fifteen thousand men passed by with hushed voices and footsteps, lest they should disturb his slumbers.

O'ercome with weariness and care, The war-worn veteran lay On the green turf of his native land, And slumbered by the way; The breeze that sighed across his brow, And smoothed its deepened lines, Fresh from his own loved mountain bore The murmur of their pines; And the glad sound of waters, The blue rejoicing streams, Whose sweet familiar tones were blent With the music of his dreams: They brought no sound of battle's din, Shrill fife or clarion, But only tenderest memories Of his own fair Arlington. While thus the chieftain slumbered, Forgetful of his care, The hollow tramp of thousands Came sounding through the air. With ringing spur and sabre, And trampling feet they come, Gay plume and rustling banner, And fife, and trump, and drum; But soon the foremost column Sees where, beneath the shade, In slumber, calm as childhood, Their wearied chief is laid; And down the line a murmur From lip to lip there ran, Until the stilly whisper Had spread to rear from van; And o'er the host a silence As deep and sudden fell, As though some mighty wizard Had hushed them with a spell; And every sound was muffled, And every soldier's tread Fell lightly as a mother's 'Round her baby's cradle-bed; And rank, and file, and column, So softly by they swept, It seemed a ghostly army Had passed him as he slept; But mightier than enchantment Was that with magic move— The spell that hushed their voices— Deep reverence and love.



Pro Memoria.

Air—There is rest for the weary.

By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama.



Lo! the Southland Queen, emerging From her sad and wintry gloom, Robes her torn and bleeding bosom In her richest orient bloom:

CHORUS.—(Repeat first line three times.) For her weary sons are resting By the Edenshore; They have won the crown immortal, And the cross of death is o'er! Where the Oriflamme is burning On the starlit Edenshore!

Brightly still, in gorgeous glory, God's great jewel lights our sky; Look! upon the heart's white dial There's a SHADOW flitting by!

CHORUS.—But the weary feet are resting, etc.

Homes are dark and hearts are weary, Souls are numb with hopeless pain; For the footfall on the threshold Never more to sound again!

CHORUS.—They have gone from us forever, Aye, for evermore! We must win the crown immortal, Follow where they led before, Where the Oriflamme is burning On the starlit Edenshore.

Proudly, as our Southern forests Meet the winter's shafts so keen: Time-defying memories cluster Round our hearts in living green.

CHORUS.—They have gone from us forever, etc.

May our faltering voices mingle In the angel-chanted psalm; May our earthly chaplets linger By the bright celestial palm.

CHORUS.—They have gone from us forever, etc.

Crest to crest they bore our banner, Side by side they fell asleep; Hand in hand we scatter flowers, Heart to heart we kneel and weep!

CHORUS.—They have gone from us forever, etc.

When the May eternal dawneth At the living God's behest, We will quaff divine Nepenthe, We will share the Soldier's rest.

CHORUS.—Where the weary feet are resting, etc.

Where the shadows are uplifted 'Neath the never-waning sun, Shout we, Gloria in Excelsis! We have lost, but ye have won!

CHORUS.—Our hearts are yours forever, Aye, for evermore! Ye have won the crown immortal, And the cross of death is o'er, Where the Oriflamme is burning On the starlit Edenshore!



The Southern Homes in Ruin.

By R. B. Vance, of North Carolina.



"We know a great deal about war now; but, dear readers, the Southern women know more. Blood has not dripped on our doorsills yet; shells have not burst above our homesteads—let us pray they never may." —Frank Leslie's Illustrated.

Many a gray-haired sire has died, As falls the oak, to rise no more, Because his son, his prop, his pride, Breathed out his last all red with gore. No more on earth, at morn, at eve, Shall age and youth, entwined as one— Nor father, son, for either grieve— Life's work, alas, for both is done!

Many a mother's heart has bled While gazing on her darling child, As in its tiny eyes she read The father's image, kind and mild; For ne'er again his voice will cheer The widowed heart, which mourns him dead; Nor kisses dry the scalding tear, Fast falling on the orphan's head!

Many a little form will stray Adown the glen and o'er the hill, And watch, with wistful looks, the way For him whose step is missing still; And when the twilight steals apace O'er mead, and brook, and lonely home, And shadows cloud the dear, sweet face— The cry will be, "Oh, papa, come!"

And many a home's in ashes now, Where joy was once a constant guest, And mournful groups there are, I trow, With neither house nor place of rest; And blood is on the broken sill, Where happy feet went to and fro, And everywhere, by field and hill, Are sickening sights and sounds of woe!

There is a God who rules on high, The widow's and the orphan's friend, Who sees each tear and hears each sigh, That these lone hearts to Him may send! And when in wrath He tears away The reasons vain which men indite, The record book will plainest say Who's in the wrong, and who is right.



"Rappahannock Army Song."

By John C. M'Lemore.



The toil of the march is over— The pack will be borne no more— For we've come for the help of Richmond, From the Rappahannock's shore. The foe is closing round us— We can hear his ravening cry; So, ho! for fair old Richmond! Like soldiers we'll do or die. We have left the land that bore us, Full many a league away, And our mothers and sisters miss us, As with tearful eyes they pray; But this will repress their weeping, And still the rising sigh— For all, for fair old Richmond, Have come to do or die.

We have come to join our brothers From the proud Dominion's vales, And to meet the dark-cheeked soldier, Tanned by the Tropic gales; To greet them all full gladly, With hand and beaming eye, And to swear, for fair old Richmond, We all will do or die.

The fair Carolina sisters Stand ready, lance in hand, To fight as they did in an older war, For the sake of their fatherland. The glories of Sumter and Bethel Have raised their fame full high, But they'll fade, if for fair old Richmond They swear not to do or die.

Zollicoffer looks down on his people, And trusts to their hearts and arms, To avenge the blood he has shed, In the midst of the battle's alarms. Alabamians, remember the past, Be the "South at Manassas," their cry; As onward for fair old Richmond, They marched to do or die.

Brave Bartow, from home on high, Calls the Empire State to the front, To bear once more as she has borne With glory the battle's brunt. Mississippians who know no surrender, Bear the flag of the Chief on high; For he, too, for fair old Richmond, Has sworn to do or die.

Fair land of my birth—sweet Florida— Your arm is weak, but your soul Must tell of a purer, holier strength, When the drums for the battle roll. Look within, for your hope in the combat, Nor think of your few with a sigh— If you win not for fair old Richmond, At least you can bravely die.

Onward all! Oh! band of brothers! The beat of the long roll's heard! And the hearts of the columns advancing, By the sound of its music is stirred. Onward all! and never return, Till our foes from the Borders fly— To be crowned by the fair of old Richmond, As those who could do or die.

Richmond Enquirer.



The Soldier in the Rain.

By Julia L. Keyes.



Ah me! the rain has a sadder sound Than it ever had before; And the wind more plaintively whistles through The crevices of the door.

We know we are safe beneath our roof From every drop that falls; And we feel secure and blest, within The shelter of our walls.

Then why do we dread to hear the noise Of the rapid, rushing rain— And the plash of the wintry drops, that beat Through the blinds, on the window-pane?

We think of the tents on the lowly ground, Where our patriot soldiers lie; And the sentry's bleak and lonely march, 'Neath the dark and starless sky.

And we pray, with a tearful heart, for those Who brave for us yet more— And we wish this war, with its thousand ills And griefs, was only o'er.

We pray when the skies are bright and clear, When the winds are soft and warm— But oh! we pray with an aching heart 'Mid the winter's rain and storm.

We fain would lift these mantling clouds That shadow our sunny clime; We can but wait—for we know there'll be A day, in the coming time,

When peace, like a rosy dawn, will flood Our land with softest light: Then—we will scarcely hearken the rain In the dreary winter's night.



My Country.

By W. D. Porter, S. C.



I.

Go, read the stories of the great and free, The nations on the long, bright roll of fame, Whose noble rage has baffled the decree Of tyrants to despoil their life and name;



II.

Whose swords have flashed like lightning in the eyes Of robber despots, glorying in their might, And taught the world, by deeds of high emprise, The power of truth and sacredness of right:



III.

Whose people, strong to suffer and endure, In faith have wrestled till the blessing came, And won through woes a victory doubly sure, As martyr wins his crown through blood and flame.



IV.

The purest virtue has been sorest tried, Nor is there glory without patient toil; And he who woos fair Freedom for his bride, Through suffering must be purged of stain and soil.



V.

My country! in this hour of trial sore, When in the balance trembling hangs thy fate, Brace thy great heart with courage to the core, Nor let one jot of faith or hope abate!



IV.

The world's bright eye is fixed upon thee still; Life, honor, fame—these all are in the scale: Endure! endure! endure! with iron will, And by the truth of heaven, thou shalt not fail!

Patriot and Mountaineer.



"After the Battle."

By Miss Agnes Leonard.



I.

All day long the sun had wandered, Through the slowly creeping hours, And at last the stars were shining Like some golden-petalled flowers Scattered o'er the azure bosom Of the glory-haunted night, Flooding all the sky with grandeur, Filling all the earth with light.



II.

And the fair moon, with the sweet stars, Gleamed amid the radiant spheres Like "a pearl of great price" shining Just as it had shone for years, On the young land that had risen, In her beauty and her might, Like some gorgeous superstructure Woven in the dreams of night:



III.

With her "cities hung like jewels" On her green and peaceful breast, With her harvest fields of plenty, And her quiet homes of rest. But a change had fallen sadly O'er the young and beauteous land, Brothers on the field fought madly That once wandered hand in hand.



IV.

And "the hearts of distant mountains Shuddered," with a fearful wonder, As the echoes burst upon them Of the cannon's awful thunder. Through the long hours waged the battle Till the setting of the sun Dropped a seal upon the record, That the day's mad work was done.



V.

Thickly on the trampled grasses Lay the battle's awful traces, 'Mid the blood-stained clover-blossoms Lay the stark and ghastly faces, With no mourners bending downward O'er a costly funeral pall; And the dying daylight softly, With the starlight watched o'er all.



VI.

And, where eager, joyous footsteps Once perchance were wont to pass, Ran a little streamlet making One "blue fold in the dark grass;" And where, from its hidden fountain, Clear and bright the brooklet burst Two had crawled, and each was bending O'er to slake his burning thirst.



VII.

Then beneath the solemn starlight Of the radiant jewelled skies, Both had turned, and were intently Gazing in each other's eyes. Both were solemnly forgiving— Hushed the pulse of passion's breath— Calmed the maddening thirst for battle, By the chilling hand of death.



VIII.

Then spoke one, in bitter anguish: "God have pity on my wife, And my children, in New Hampshire; Orphans by this cruel strife." And the other, leaning closer, Underneath the solemn sky, Bowed his head to hide the moisture Gathering in his downcast eye:



IX.

"I've a wife and little daughter, 'Mid the fragrant Georgia bloom,"— Then his cry rang sharper, wilder, "Oh, God! pity all their gloom." And the wounded, in their death-hour, Talking of the loved ones' woes, Nearer drew unto each other, Till they were no longer foes.



X.

And the Georgian listened sadly As the other tried to speak, While the tears were dropping softly O'er the pallor of his cheek: "How she used to stand and listen, Looking o'er the fields for me, Waiting, till she saw me coming, 'Neath the shadowy old plum-tree. Never more I'll hear her laughter, As she sees me at the gate, And beneath the plum-tree's shadows, All in vain for me she'll wait."



XI.

Then the Georgian, speaking softly, Said: "A brown-eyed little one Used to wait among the roses, For me, when the day was done; And amid the early fragrance Of those blossoms, fresh and sweet, Up and down the old verandah I would chase my darling's feet. But on earth no more the beauty Of her face my eye shall greet, Nevermore I'll hear the music Of those merry pattering feet— Ah, the solemn starlight, falling On the far-off Georgia bloom, Tells no tale unto my darling Of her absent father's doom."



XII.

Through the tears that rose between them Both were trying grief to smother, As they clasped each other's fingers Whispering: "Let's forgive each other."



XIII.

When the morning sun was walking "Up the gray stairs of the dawn," And the crimson east was flushing All the forehead of the morn, Pitying skies were looking sadly On the "once proud, happy land," On the Southron and the Northman, Holding fast each other's hand. Fatherless the golden tresses, Watching 'neath the old plum-tree; Fatherless the little Georgian Sporting in unconscious glee.

Chicago Journal of Commerce, June, 1868.



Our Confederate Dead.

What the Heart of a Young Girl Said to the Dead Soldier.

By a Lady of Augusta, Geo.



Unknown to me, brave boy, but still I wreathe For you the tenderest of wildwood flowers; And o'er your tomb a virgin's prayer I breathe, To greet the pure moon and the April showers.

I only know, I only care to know, You died for me—for me and country bled; A thousand Springs and wild December snow Will weep for one of all the SOUTHERN DEAD.

Perchance, some mother gazes up the skies, Wailing, like Rachel, for her martyred brave— Oh, for her darling sake, my dewy eyes Moisten the turf above your lowly grave.

The cause is sacred, when our maidens stand Linked with sad matrons and heroic sires, Above the relics of a vanquished land And light the torch of sanctifying fires.

Your bed of honor has a rosy cope To shimmer back the tributary stars; And every petal glistens with a hope Where Love hath blossomed in the disk of Mars.

Sleep! On your couch of glory slumber comes Bosomed amid the archangelic choir; Not with the grumble of impetuous drums Deepening the chorus of embattled ire.

Above you shall the oak and cedar fling Their giant plumage and protecting shade; For you the song-bird pause upon his wing And warble requiems ever undismayed.

Farewell! And if your spirit wander near To kiss this plant of unaspiring art— Translate it, even in the heavenly sphere, As the libretto of a maiden's heart.



Ye Cavaliers of Dixie

By Benj. F. Pouter, of Alabama.



Ye Cavaliers of Dixie That guard our Southern shores, Whose standards brave the battle-storm That round the border roars; Your glorious sabres draw again, And charge the invading foe; Reap the columns deep Where the battle tempests blow, Where the iron hail in floods descends, And the bloody torrents flow.

Ye Cavaliers of Dixie! Though dark the tempest lower, No arms will wear a tyrant's chains! No dastard heart will cower! Bright o'er the cloud the sign will rise, To lead to victory; While your swords reap his hordes, Where the battle-tempests blow, And the iron hail in floods descends, And the bloody torrents flow.

Ye Cavaliers of Dixie! Though Vicksburg's towers fall, Here still are sacred rights to shield! Your wives, your homes, your all! With gleaming arms advance again, Drive back the raging foe, Nor yield your native field, While the battle-tempests blow, And the iron hail in floods descends, And the bloody torrents flow.

Our country needs no ramparts, No batteries to shield! Your bosoms are her bulwarks strong, Breastworks that cannot yield! The thunders of your battle-blades Shall sweep the hated foe, While their gore stains the shore, Where the battle-tempests blow, And the iron hail in floods descends, And the bloody torrents flow.

The spirits of your fathers Shall rise from every grave! Our country is their field of fame, They nobly died to save! Where Johnson, Jackson, Tilghman fell, Your patriot hearts shall glow; While you reap columns deep, Through the armies of the foe, Where the battle-storm is raging loud, And the bloody torrents flow.

The battle-flag of Dixie On crimson field shall flame, With azure cross, and silver stars, To light her sons to fame! When peace with olive-branch returns, That flag's white folds shall glow, Still bright on every height, Where the storm has ceased to blow, Where battle-tempests rage no more, Nor bloody torrents flow.

The battle-flag of Dixie Shall long triumphant wave, Where'er the storms of battle roar, And victory crowns the brave! The Cavaliers of Dixie! In woman's songs shall glow The fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow, When the battle-tempests rage no more, Nor the bloody torrents flow.



Song of Spring, (1864.)

By John A. Wagener, of South Carolina.



Spring has come! Spring has come! The brightening earth, the sparkling dew, The bursting buds, the sky of blue, The mocker's carol, in tree and hedge, Proclaim anew Jehovah's pledge— "So long as man shall earth retain, The seasons gone shall come again."

Spring has come! Springs has come! We have her here, in the balmy air, In the blossoms that bourgeon without a care; The violet bounds from her lowly bed, And the jasmin flaunts with a lofty head; All nature, in her baptismal dress, Is abroad—to win, to soothe, and bless.