Spring has come! Spring has come! Yes, and eternal as the Lord, Who spells her being at a word; All blest but man, whose passions proud Wrap Nature in her bloody shroud— His heart is winter to the core, His spring, alas! shall come no more!



"What the Village Bell Said."

By John C. M'Lemore, of South Carolina.[1]



Full many a year in the village church, Above the world have I made my home; And happier there, than if I had hung High up in the air in a golden dome; For I have tolled When the slow hearse rolled Its burden sad to my door; And each echo that woke, With the solemn stroke, Was a sigh from the heart of the poor.

I know the great bell of the city spire Is a far prouder one than such as I; And its deafening stroke, compared with mine, Is thunder compared with a sigh: But the shattering note Of his brazen throat, As it swells on the Sabbath air, Far oftener rings For other things Than a call to the house of prayer.

Brave boy, I tolled when your father died, And you wept while my tones pealed loud; And more gently I rung when the lily-white dame, Your mother dear, lay in her shroud: And I sang in sweet tone The angels might own, When your sister you gave to your friend; Oh! I rang with delight, On that sweet summer night, When they vowed they would love to the end!

But a base foe comes from the regions of crime, With a heart all hot with the flames of hell; And the tones of the bell you have loved so long No more on the air shall swell: For the people's chief, With his proud belief That his country's cause is God's own, Would change the song, The hills have rung, To the thunder's harsher tone.

Then take me down from the village church, Where in peace so long I have hung; But I charge you, by all the loved and lost, Remember the songs I have sung. Remember the mound Of holy ground, Where your father and mother lie; And swear by the love For the dead above To beat your foul foe or die.

Then take me; but when (I charge you this) You have come to the bloody field, That the bell of God, to a cannon grown, You will ne'er to the foeman yield. By the love of the past, Be that hour your last, When the foe has reached this trust; And make him a bed Of patriot dead, And let him sleep in this holy dust.

[1] Mortally wounded at the battle of Seven Pines.



The Tree, the Serpent, and the Star.

By A. P. Gray, of South Carolina.



From the silver sands of a gleaming shore, Where the wild sea-waves were breaking, A lofty shoot from a twining root Sprang forth as the dawn was waking; And the crest, though fed by the sultry beam, (And the shaft by the salt wave only,) Spread green to the breeze of the curling seas, And rose like a column lonely. Then hail to the tree, the Palmetto tree, Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free.

As the sea-winds rustled the bladed crest, And the sun to the noon rose higher, A serpent came, with an eye of flame, And coiled by the leafy pyre; His ward he would keep by the lonely tree, To guard it with constant devotion; Oh, sharp was the fang, and the armd clang, That pierced through the roar of the ocean, And guarded the tree, the Palmetto tree, Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free.

And the day wore down to the twilight close, The breeze died away from the billow; Yet the wakeful clang of the rattles rang Anon from the serpent's pillow; When I saw through the night a gleaming star O'er the branching summit growing, Till the foliage green and the serpent's sheen In the golden light were glowing, That hung o'er the tree, the Palmetto tree, Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free.

By the standard cleave every loyal son, When the drums' long roll shall rattle; Let the folds stream high to the victor's eye; Or sink in the shock of the battle. Should triumph rest on the red field won, With a victor's song let us hail it; If the battle fail and the star grow pale, Yet never in shame will we veil it, But cherish the tree, the Palmetto tree, Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free.



Southern War Hymn

By John A. Wagener, of South Carolina.



Arise! arise! with arm of might, Sons of our sunny home! Gird on the sword for the sacred fight, For the battle-hour hath come! Arise! for the felon foe draws nigh In battle's dread array; To the front, ye brave! let the coward fly, 'Tis the hero that bides the fray!

Strike hot and hard, my noble band, With the arm of fight and fire; Strike fast for God and Fatherland, For mother, and wife, and sire. Though thunders roar and lightnings flash, Oh! Southrons, never fear, Ye shall turn the bolt with the sabre's clash, And the shaft with the steely spear.

Bright blooms shall wave o'er the hero's grave, While the craven finds no rest; Thrice cursed the traitor, the slave, the knave, While thrice is the hero blessed To the front in the fight, ye Southrons, stand, Brave spirits, with eagle eye, And standing for God and for Fatherland, Ye will gallantly do or die.

Charleston Courier.



The Battle Rainbow.

By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.



The poem which follows was written just after the Seven Days of Battle, near Richmond, in 1862. It was suggested by the appearance of a rainbow, the evening before the grand trial of strength between the contending armies. This rainbow overspread the eastern sky, and exactly defined the position of the Confederate army, as seen from the Capitol at Richmond.

The warm, weary day, was departing—the smile Of the sunset gave token the tempest had ceased; And the lightning yet fitfully gleamed for a while On the cloud that sank sullen and dark in the east.

There our army—awaiting the terrible fight Of the morrow—lay hopeful, and watching, and still; Where their tents all the region had sprinkled with white, From river to river, o'er meadow and hill.

While above them the fierce cannonade of the sky Blazed and burst from the vapors that muffled the sun, Their "counterfeit clamors" gave forth no reply; And slept till the battle, the charge in each gun.

When lo! on the cloud, a miraculous thing! Broke in beauty the rainbow our host to enfold! The centre o'erspread by its arch, and each wing Suffused with its azure and crimson and gold.

Blest omen of victory, symbol divine Of peace after tumult, repose after pain; How sweet and how glowing with promise the sign, To eyes that should never behold it again!

For the fierce flame of war on the morrow flashed out, And its thunder-peals filled all the tremulous air: Over slippery intrenchment and reddened redoubt, Rang the wild cheer of triumph, the cry of despair.

Then a long week of glory and agony came— Of mute supplication, and yearning, and dread; When day unto day gave the record of fame, And night unto night gave the list of its dead.

We had triumphed—the foe had fled back to his ships— His standard in rags and his legions a wreck— But alas! the stark faces and colorless lips Of our loved ones, gave triumph's rejoicing a check.

Not yet, oh not yet, as a sign of release, Had the Lord set in mercy his bow in the cloud; Not yet had the Comforter whispered of peace To the hearts that around us lay bleeding and bowed.

But the promise was given—the beautiful arc, With its brilliant profusion of colors, that spanned The sky on that exquisite eve, was the mark Of the Infinite Love overarching the land:

And that Love, shining richly and full as the day, Through the tear-drops that moisten each martyr's proud pall, On the gloom of the past the bright bow shall display Of Freedom, Peace, Victory, bent over all.



Stonewall Jackson.

Mortally wounded—"The Brigade must not know, sir."



"Who've ye got there?"—"Only a dying brother, Hurt in the front just now." "Good boy! he'll do. Somebody tell his mother Where he was killed, and how."

"Whom have you there?"—"A crippled courier, major, Shot by mistake, we hear. He was with Stonewall." "Cruel work they've made here: Quick with him to the rear!"

"Well, who comes next?"—"Doctor, speak low, speak low, sir; Don't let the men find out. It's STONEWALL!" "God!" "The brigade must not know, sir, While there's a foe about."

Whom have we here—shrouded in martial manner, Crowned with a martyr's charm? A grand dead hero, in a living banner, Born of his heart and arm:

The heart whereon his cause hung—see how clingeth That banner to his bier! The arm wherewith his cause struck—hark! how ringeth His trumpet in their rear!

What have we left? His glorious inspiration, His prayers in council met. Living, he laid the first stones of a nation; And dead, he builds it yet.



Dirge for Ashby.

By Mrs. M. J. Preston.



Heard ye that thrilling word— Accent of dread— Fall, like a thunderbolt, Bowing each head? Over the battle dun, Over each booming gun— Ashby, our bravest one! Ashby is dead!

Saw ye the veterans— Hearts that had known Never a quail of fear, Never a groan— Sob, though the fight they win, Tears their stern eyes within— Ashby, our Paladin, Ashby is dead!

Dash, dash the tear away— Crush down the pain! Dulce et decus, be Fittest refrain! Why should the dreary pall, Round him, be flung at all? Did not our hero fall Gallantly slain!

Catch the last words of cheer, Dropt from his tongue; Over the battle's din, Let them be rung! "Follow me! follow me!" Soldier, oh! could there be Pan or dirge for thee, Loftier sung?

Bold as the lion's heart— Dauntlessly brave— Knightly as knightliest Bayard might crave; Sweet, with all Sydney's grace. Tender as Hampden's face, Who now shall fill the space, Void by his grave?

'Tis not one broken heart, Wild with dismay— Crazed in her agony, Weeps o'er his clay! Ah! from a thousand eyes, Flow the pure tears that rise— Widowed Virginia lies Stricken to-day!

Yet, charge as gallantly, Ye, whom he led! Jackson, the victor, still Leads, at your head! Heroes! be battle done Bravelier, every one Nerved by the thought alone— Ashby is dead!



Sacrifice.



I.

Another victim for the sacrifice! Oh! my own mother South, How terrible this wail above thy youth, Dying at the cannon's mouth,— And for no crime—no vice— No scheme of selfish greed—no avarice, Or insolent ambition, seeking power;—. But that, with resolute soul and will sublime, They made their proud election to be free,— To leave a grand inheritance to time, And to their sons and race, of liberty!



II.

Oh! widow'd woman, sitting in thy weeds, With thy young brood around thee, sad and lone, Thy fancy sees thy hero where he bleeds, And still thou hear'st his moan! Dying he calls on thee—again—again! With blessing and fond memories. Be of cheer; He has not died—he did not bless—in vain: For, in the eternal rounds of GOD, HE squares The account with sorrowing hearts; and soothes the fears, And leads the orphans home, and dries the widow's tears.

Charleston Mercury.



Sonnet.

Written in 1864.



What right to freedom when we are not free? When all the passions goad us into lust; When, for the worthless spoil we lick the dust, And while one-half our people die, that we May sit with peace and freedom 'neath our tree, The other gloats for plunder and for spoil: Bustles through daylight, vexes night with toil, Cheats, swindles, lies and steals!—Shall such things be Endowed with such grand boons as Liberty Brings in her train of blessings? Should we pray That such as these should still maintain the sway— These soulless, senseless, heartless enemies Of all that's good and great, of all that's wise, Worthy on earth, or in the Eternal Eyes!

Charleston Mercury.



Grave of A. Sydney Johnston.

By J. B. Synnott.



The Lone Star State secretes the clay Of him who led on Shiloh's field, Where mourning wives will stop to pray, And maids a weeping tribute yield.

In after time, when spleen and strife Their madd'ning flame shall have expired, The noble deeds that gemm'd this life By Age and Youth will be admired.

As o'er the stream the boatmen rove By Pittsburg Bend at early Spring, They'll show with moist'ning eye the grave Where havoc spread her sable wing.

There, 'neath the budding foliage green, Ere Night evolved her dewy breath, While Vict'ry smiled upon the scene, Our Chieftain met the blow of death.

Great men to come will bless the brave; The soldier, bronzed in War's career, Shall weave a chaplet o'er his grave, While Mem'ry drops the glist'ning tear.

Though envy wag her scorpion tongue, The march of Time shall find his fame; Where Bravery's loved and Glory's sung, There children's lips shall lisp his name.



"Not Doubtful of Your Fatherland."



I.

Not doubtful of your fatherland, Or of the God who gave it; On, Southrons! 'gainst the hireling band That struggle to enslave it; Ring boldly out Your battle-shout, Charge fiercely 'gainst these felon hordes: One hour of strife Is freedom's life, And glory hangs upon your swords!



II.

A thousand mothers' matron eyes, Wives, sisters, daughters weeping, Watch, where your virgin banner flies, To battle fiercely sweeping: Though science fails, The steel prevails, When hands that wield, own hearts of oak: These, though the wall Of stone may fall, Grow stronger with each hostile stroke.



III.

The faith that feels its cause as true, The virtue to maintain it; The soul to brave, the will to do,— These seek the fight, and gain it! The precious prize Before your eyes, The all that life conceives of charm, Home, freedom, life, Child, sister, wife, All rest upon your soul and arm!



IV.

And what the foe, the felon race, That seek your subjugation? The scum of Europe, her disgrace. The lepers of the nation. And what the spoil That tempts their toil, The bait that goads them on to fight? Lust, crime, and blood, Each fiendish mood That prompts and follows appetite.



V.

Shall such prevail, and shall you fail, Asserting cause so holy? With souls of might, go, seek the fight, And crush these wretches lowly. On, with the cry, To do or die, As did, in darker days, your sires, Nor stay the blow, Till every foe, Down stricken, in your path, expires!

Charleston Mercury.



Only a Soldier's Grave.

By S. A. Jones, of Aberdeen, Mississippi.



Only a soldier's grave! Pass by, For soldiers, like other mortals, die. Parents he had—they are far away; No sister weeps o'er the soldier's clay; No brother comes, with a tearful eye: It's only a soldier's grave—pass by.

True, he was loving, and young, and brave, Though no glowing epitaph honors his grave; No proud recital of virtues known, Of griefs endured, or of triumphs won; No tablet of marble, or obelisk high;— Only a soldier's grave—pass by.

Yet bravely he wielded his sword in fight, And he gave his life in the cause of right! When his hope was high, and his youthful dream As warm as the sunlight on yonder stream; His heart unvexed by sorrow or sigh;— Yet,'tis only a soldier's grave:—pass by.

Yet, should we mark it—the soldier's grave, Some one may seek him in hope to save! Some of the dear ones, far away, Would bear him home to his native clay: 'Twere sad, indeed, should they wander nigh, Find not the hillock, and pass him by.



The Guerilla Martyrs.



I.

Ay, to the doom—the scaffold and the chain,— To all your cruel tortures, bear them on, Ye foul and coward Hangmen;—but in vain!— Ye cannot touch the glory they have won— And win—thus yielding up the martyr's breath For freedom!—Theirs is a triumphant death!— A sacred pledge from Nature, that her womb Still keeps some sacred fires;—that yet shall burst, Even from the reeking ravage of their doom, As glorious—ay, more glorious—than the first! Exult, shout, triumph! Wretches, do your worst! 'Tis for a season only! There shall come An hour when ye shall feel yourselves accurst; When the dread vengeance of a century Shall reap its harvest in a single day; And ye shall howl in horror;—and, to die, Shall be escape and refuge! Ye may slay; But to be cruel and brutal, does not make Ye conquerors; and the vulture yet shall prey On living hearts; and vengeance fiercely slake The unappeasable appetite ye wake, In the hot blood of victims, that have been, Most eager, binding freemen to the stake,— Most greedy, in the orgies of this sin!



II.

Ye slaughter,—do ye triumph? Ask your chains, Ye Sodom-hearted butchers!—turn your eyes, Where reeks yon bloody scaffold; and the pains, Ungroaned, of a true martyr, ere he dies, Attest the damned folly of your crime, Now at its carnival! His spirit flies, Unscathed by all your fires, through every clime, Into the world's wide bosom. Thousands rise, Prompt at its call, and principled to strike The tyrants and the tyrannies alike!— Voices, that doom ye, speak in all your deeds, And cry to heaven, arm earth, and kindle hell! A host of freemen, where one martyr bleeds, Spring from his place of doom, and make his knell The toscin, to arouse a myriad race, T'avenge Humanity's wrong, and wipe off man's disgrace!



III.

We mourn not for our martyrs!—for they perish, As the good perish, for a deathless faith: Their glorious memories men will fondly cherish, In terms and signs that shall ennoble death! Their blood becomes a principle, to guide, Onward, forever onward, in proud flow, Restless, resistless, as the ocean tide, The Spirit heaven yields freedom here below! How should we mourn the martyrs, who arise, Even from the stake and scaffold, to the skies;— And take their thrones, as slars; and o'er the night, Shed a new glory; and to other souls, Shine out with blessed guidance, and true light, Which leads successive races to their goals!

Charleston Mercury.



"Libera Nos, O Domine!"

By James Barron Hope.



What! ye hold yourselves as freemen? Tyrants love just such as ye! Go! abate your lofty manner! Write upon the State's old banner, "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Sink before the federal altar, Each one low, on bended knee, Pray, with lips that sob and falter, This prayer from the coward's psalter,— "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

But ye hold that quick repentance In the Northern mind will be; This repentance comes no sooner Than the robbers did, at Luna! "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

He repented him:—the Bishop Gave him absolution free; Poured upon him sacred chrism In the pomp of his baptism. "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

He repented;—then he sickened! Was he pining for the sea? In extremis was he shriven, The viaticum was given, "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Then the old cathedral's choir Took the plaintive minor key; With the Host upraised before him, Down the marble aisles they bore him; "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

While the bishop and the abbot— All the monks of high degree, Chanting praise to the Madonna, Came to do him Christian honor! "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Now the miserere's cadence, Takes the voices of the sea; As the music-billows quiver, See the dead freebooter shiver! "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Is it that these intonations Thrill him thus from head to knee? Lo, his cerements burst asunder! 'Tis a sight of fear and wonder! "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Fierce, he stands before the bishop, Dark as shape of Destinie. Hark! a shriek ascends, appalling,— Down the prelate goes—dead—falling! "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Hastings lives! He was but feigning! What! Repentant? Never he! Down he smites the priests and friars, And the city lights with fires! "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Ah! the children and the maidens, 'Tis in vain they strive to flee! Where the white-haired priests lie bleeding, Is no place for woman's pleading. "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Louder swells the frightful tumult— Pallid Death holds revelrie! Dies the organ's mighty clamor, By the horseman's iron hammer! "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

So they thought that he'd repented! Had they nailed him to the tree, He had not deserved their pity, And they had not—lost their city. "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

For the moral in this story, Which is plain as truth can be: If we trust the North's relenting, We shall shriek-too late repenting— "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!" [1]

[1] For this incident in the life of the sea-robber, Hastings, see Milman's History of Latin Christianity.



The Knell Shall Sound Once More.



I know that the knell shall sound once more, And the dirge be sung o'er a bloody grave; And there shall be storm on the beaten shore, And there shall be strife on the stormy wave; And we shall wail, with a mighty wail, And feel the keen sorrow through many years, But shall not our banner at last prevail, And our eyes be dried of tears?

There's a bitter pledge for each fruitful tree, And the nation whose course is long to run, Must make, though in anguish still it be, The tribute of many a noble son; The roots of each mighty shaft must grow In the blood-red fountains of mighty hearts; And to conquer the right from a bloody foe, Brings a pang as when soul and body parts!

But the blood and the pang are the need, alas! To strengthen the sovereign will that svrays The generations that rise, and pass To the full fruition that crowns their days! 'Tis still in the strife, they must grow to life: And sorrow shall strengthen the soul for care; And the freedom sought must ever be bought By the best blood-offerings, held most dear.

Heroes, the noblest, shall still be first To mount the red altar of sacrifice; Homes the most sacred shall fare the worst, Ere we conquer and win the precious prize!— The struggle may last for a thousand years, And only with blood shall the field be bought; But the sons shall inherit, through blood and tears, The birth-right for 'which their old fathers fought.

Charleston Mercury.



Gendron Palmer, of the Holcombe Legion

By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama.



He sleeps upon Virginia's strand, While comrades of the Legion stand With arms reversed—a mournful band— Around his early bier! His war-horse paws the shaking ground, The volleys ring—they close around— And on the white brow, laurel-bound, Falls many a soldier's tear.

Up, stricken mourners! look on high, Loud anthems rend the echoing sky, Re-born where heroes never die— The warrior is at rest! Gone is the weary, pain-traced frown; Life's march is o'er, his arms cast down, His plumes replaced by shining—crown, The red cross on his breast!

Though Gendron's arm is with the dust, Let not his blood-stained weapon rust, Bequeathed to one who'll bear the trust, Where Southern banners fly! Some brave, who followed where he led— Aye, swear him o'er the martyred dead, To avenge each drop of blood he shed, Or, like him, bravely die!

He deemed a death for honor sweet.— And thus he fell!-'Tis doubly meet, Our flag should be his winding-sheet, Proud banner of the free! Oh, let his honored form be laid Beneath the loved Palmetto's shade; His praises sung by Southern maid, While flows the broad Santee!

We come around his urn to twine Sweet clusters of the jasmine vine, Culled where our tropic sunbeams shine, From skies deep-dyed and bright; And, kneeling, vow no right to yield!— On, brothers, on!—Fight! win the field! Or dead return on battered shield, As martyrs for the right!

Where camp-fires light the reddened sod, The grief-bowed Legion kneel to God, In Palmer's name, and by his blood, They swell the battle-cry; We'll sheathe no more our dripping steel, 'Till tyrants Southern vengeance feel, And menial hordes as suppliants kneel, Or, terror-stricken, fly!



Mumford, the Martyr of New Orleans.

By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama.



Where murdered Mumford lies, Bewailed in bitter sighs, Low-bowed beneath the flag he loved, Martyrs of Liberty, Defenders of the Free! Come, humbly nigh, And learn to die!

Ah, Freedom, on that day, Turned fearfully away, While pitying angels lingered near, To gaze upon the sod, Red with a martyr's blood; And woman's tear Fell on his bier!

O God! that he should die Beneath a Southern sky! Upon a felon's gallows swung, Murdered by tyrant hand,— While round a helpless band, On Butler's name Poured scorn and shame.

But hark! loud pans fly From earth to vaulted sky, He's crowned at Freedom's holy throne! List! sweet-voiced Israfel[1] Tolls far the martyr's knell! Shout, Southrons, high, Our battle cry!

Come, all of Southern blood, Come, kneel to Freedom's God! Here at her crimsoned altar swear! Accursed for evermore The flag that Mumford tore, And o'er his grave Our colors wave!

[1] "The sweetest-voiced angel around the throne of God." —Oriental Legend.



The Foe at the Gates.—Charleston.

By J. Dickson Bruns, M. D.



Ring round her! children of her gloridus skies, Whom she hath nursed to stature proud and great; Catch one last glance from her imploring eyes, Then close your ranks and face the threatening fate.

Ring round her! with a wall of horrent steel Confront the foe, nor mercy ask nor give; And in her hour of anguish let her feel That ye can die whom she has taught to live.

Ring round her! swear, by every lifted blade, To shield from wrong the mother who gave you birth; That never villain hand on her be laid, Nor base foot desecrate her hallowed hearth.

See how she thrills all o'er with noble shame, As through deep sobs she draws the laboring breath, Her generous brow and bosom all aflame At the bare thought of insult, worse than death.

And stained and rent her snowy garments are; The big drops gather on her pallid face, Gashed with great wounds by cowards who strove to mar The beauteous form that spurned their foul embrace.

And still she pleads, oh! how she pleads, with prayers And bitter tears, to every loving child To stand between her and the doom she fears, To keep her fame untarnished, undefiled!

Curst be the dastard who shall halt or doubt! And doubly damned who casts one look behind! Ye who are men! with unsheathed sword, and shout, Up with her banner! give it to the wind.

Peal your wild slogan, echoing far and wide, Till every ringing avenue repeat The gathering cry, and Ashley's angry tide Calls to the sea-waves beating round her feet.

Sons, to the rescue! spurred and belted, come! Kneeling, with clasp'd hands, she invokes you now By the sweet memories of your childhood's home, By every manly hope and filial vow,

To save her proud soul from that loathd thrall Which yet her spirit cannot brook to name; Or, if her fate be near, and she must fall, Spare her—she sues—the agony and the shame.

From all her fanes let solemn bells be tolled, Heap with kind hands her costly funeral pyre, And thus, with pan sung and anthem rolled, Give her, unspotted, to the God of Fire.

Gather around her sacred ashes then, Sprinkle the cherished dust with crimson rain, Die! as becomes a race of free-born men, Who will not crouch to wear the bondman's chain.

So, dying, ye shall win a high renown, If not in life, at least by death, set free— And send her fame, through endless ages down, The last grand holocaust of liberty.



Savannah Fallen.

By Alethea S. Burroughs, of Georgia.



I.

Bowing her head to the dust of the earth. Smitten and stricken is she, Light after light gone out from her hearth, Son after son from her knee. Bowing her head to the dust at her feet, Weeping her beautiful slain, Silence! keep silence, for aye in the street, See! they are coming again.



II.

Coming again, oh! glorious ones, Wrapped in the flag of the free; Queen of the South! bright crowns for thy sons, Only the cypress for thee! Laurel, and banner, and music, and drum, Marches, and requiems sweet; Silence! keep silence! alas, how they come, Oh! how they move through the street!



III.

Slowly, ah! mournfully, slowly they go, Bearing the young and the brave, Fair as the summer, but white as the snow Bearing them down to the grave. Some in the morning, and some in the noou, Some in the hey-day of life; Bower nor blossom, nor summer nor June, Wooing them back to the strife.



IV.

Some in the billow, afar, oh! afar, Staining the waves with their blood; One on the vessel's high deck, like a star, Sinking in glory's bright-flood.[1] Bowing her head to the dust of the earth, Humbled but honored is she, lighting the skies with the stars from her hearth, Who shall her comforter be?



V.

Bring her, oh! bring her the garments of woe, Sackcloth and ashes for aye; Winds of the South! oh, a requiem blow, Sighing and sorrow to-day. Sprinkle the showers from heaven's blue eyes Wide o'er the green summer lea, Rachel is weeping, oh! Lord of the skies, Thou shalt her comforter be!

[1] Captain Thomas Pelot, C. S. N., killed at the capture of the "Water Witch."



Bull Run.—A Parody.



I.

At Bull Run when the sun was low, Each Southern face grew pale as snow, While loud as jackdaws rose the crow Of Yankees boasting terribly!



II.

But Bull Run saw another sight, When at the deepening shades of night, Towards Fairfax Court-House rose the flight Of Yankees running rapidly.



III.

Then broke each corps with terror riven, Then rushed the steeds from battle driven, The men of battery Number Seven Forsook their Red artillery!



IV.

Still on McDowell's farthest left, The roar of cannon strikes one deaf, Where furious Abe and fiery Jeff Contend for death or victory.



V.

The panic thickens—off, ye brave! Throw down your arms! your bacon save! Waive, Washington, all scruples waive, And fly, with all your chivalry!



"Stack Arms."

Written in the Prison of Fort Delaware, Del., on Hearing of the Surrender of General Lee.

By Jos. Blyth Alston.



"Stack Arms!" I've gladly heard the cry When, weary with the dusty tread Of marching troops, as night drew nigh, I sank upon my soldier bed, And camly slept; the starry dome Of heaven's blue arch my canopy, And mingled with my dreams of home, The thoughts of Peace and Liberty.

"Stack Arms!" I've heard it, when the shout Exulting, rang along our line, Of foes hurled back in bloody rout, Captured, dispersed; its tones divine Then came to mine enraptured ear. Guerdon of duty nobly done, And glistened on my cheek the tear Of grateful joy for victory won.

"Stack Arms!" In faltering accents, slow And sad, it creeps from tongue to tongue, A broken, murmuring wail of woe, From manly hearts by anguish wrung. Like victims of a midnight dream, We move, we know not how nor why, For life and hope but phantoms seem, And it would be relief—to die!



Doffing the Gray.

By Lieutenant Falligant, of Savannah, Geo.



Off with your gray suits, boys— Off with your rebel gear— They smack too much of the cannons' peal, The lightning flash of your deadly steel, The terror of your spear.

Their color is like the smoke That curled o'er your battle-line; They call to mind the yell that woke When the dastard columns before you broke, And their dead were your fatal sign.

Off with the starry wreath, Ye who have led our van; To you 'twas the pledge of glorious death, When we followed you over the gory heath, Where we whipped them man to man.

Down with the cross of stars— Too long hath it waved on high; 'Tis covered all over with battle scars, But its gleam the Northern banner mars— 'Tis time to lay it by.

Down with the vows we've made, Down, with each memory— Down with the thoughts of our noble dead— Down, down to the dust, where their forms are laid And down with Liberty.



In the Land Where We Were Dreaming

By D. B. Lucas, Esq., of Jefferson.



Fair were our visions! Oh, they were as grand As ever floated out of Faerie land; Children were we in single faith, But God-like children, whom, nor death, Nor threat, nor danger drove from Honor's path, In the land where we were dreaming.

Proud were our men, as pride of birth could render; As violets, our women pure and tender; And when they spoke, their voice did thrill Until at eve, the whip-poor-will, At morn the mocking-bird, were mute and still In the land where we were dreaming.

And we had graves that covered more of glory Than ever tracked tradition's ancient story; And in our dream we wove the thread Of principles for which had bled And suffered long our own immortal dead In the land where we were dreaming.

Though in our land we had both bond and free, Both were content; and so God let them be;— 'Till envy coveted our land And those fair fields our valor won: But little recked we, for we still slept on, In the land where we were dreaming.

Our sleep grew troubled and our dreams grew wild— Red meteors flashed across our heaven's field; Crimson the moon; between the Twins Barbed arrows fly, and then begins Such strife as when disorder's Chaos reigns, In the land where we were dreaming.

Down from her sun-lit heights smiled Liberty And waved her cap in sign of Victory— The world approved, and everywhere Except where growled the Russian bear, The good, the brave, the just gave us their prayer In the land where we were dreaming.

We fancied that a Government was ours— We challenged place among the world's great powers; We talked in sleep of Rank, Commission, Until so life-like grew our vision, That he who dared to doubt but met derision In the land where we were dreaming.

We looked on high: a banner there was seen, Whose field was blanched and spotless in its sheen— Chivalry's cross its Union bears, And vet'rans swearing by their scars Vowed they would bear it through a hundred wars In the land where we were dreaming.

A hero came amongst us as we slept; At first he lowly knelt—then rose and wept; Then gathering up a thousand spears He swept across the field of Mars; Then bowed farewell and walked beyond the stars— In the land where we were dreaming.

We looked again: another figure still Gave hope, and nerved each individual will— Full of grandeur, clothed with power, Self-poised, erect, he ruled the hour With stern, majestic sway—of strength a tower In the land where we were dreaming.

As, while great Jove, in bronze, a warder God, Gazed eastward from the Forum where he stood, Rome felt herself secure and free, So, "Richmond's safe," we said, while we Beheld a bronzed Hero—God-like Lee, In the land where we were dreaming.

As wakes the soldier when the alarum calls— As wakes the mother when the infant falls— As starts the traveller when around His sleeping couch the fire-bells sound— So woke our nation with a single bound In the land where we were dreaming.

Woe! woe is me! the startled mother cried— While we have slept our noble sons have died! Woe! woe is me! how strange and sad, That all our glorious vision's fled And left us nothing real but the dead In the land where we were dreaming.

And are they really dead, our martyred slain? No! dreamers! morn shall bid them rise again From every vale—from every height On which they seemed to die for right— Their gallant spirits shall renew the fight In the land where we were dreaming.



Ballad—"Yes, Build Your Walls."



I.

Yes, build your walls of stone or sand, But know, when all is builded—then, The proper breastworks of the land Are in a race of freeborn men! The sons of sires, who knew, in life, That, of all virtues, manhood first, Still nursing peace, yet arms for strife, And braves, for liberty, the worst!



II.

What grand examples have been ours! Oh! sons of Moultrie, Marion,—call From mansions of the past, the powers, That plucked ye from the despot's thrall! Do Sumter, Rutledge, Gadsden, live? Oh! for your City by the Sea, They gladly gave, what men could give, Blood, life, and toil, and made it free!



III.

The grand inheritance, in trust For children of your loins, must know No taint of shame, no loss by lust, Your own, or of the usurping foe! Let not your sons, in future days, The children now that bear your name, Exulting in a grandsire's praise, Droop o'er a father's grave in shame!

Charleston Mercury.



The Lines Around Petersburg.

By Samuel Davis, of North Carolina.



"Such a sleep they sleep, The men I loved!" Tennyson.

Oh, silence, silence! now, when night is near, And I am left alone, Thou art so strange, so sad reposing here— And all so changed hath grown, Where all was once exuberant with life Through day and night, in deep and deadly strife.

If I must weep, oh, tell me, is there not Some plaintive story breathed into mine ear By spirit-whispers from thy voiceless sphere, Haunting this awful spot? To my sad soul, more mutely eloquent Than words of fame on sculptured monument Outspeaks yon crumbling parapet, where lies The broken gun, the idly rusting ball, Mute tokens of an ill-starred enterprise! Rude altars reared for costly sacrifice! Vast work of hero-hands left in thy fall!

Where are they now, that fearless brotherhood, Who marshalled here, That fearful year, In pain and peril, yet undaunted stood,— Though Death rode fiercest on the battle-storm And earth lay strewn with many a glorious form? Where are they now, who, when the strife was done, With kindly greeting 'round the camp-fire met,— And made an hour of mirth, from triumphs won, Repay the day's stern toil, when the slow sun had set?

Where are they?— Let the nameless grave declare,— In strange unwonted hillocks—frequent seen! Alas I who knows how much lies buried there!— What worlds, of love, and all that might have been! The rest are scattered now, we know not where; And Life to each a new employment brings; But still they seem to gather round me here, To whom these places were familiar things! Wide sundered now, by mountain and by stream, Once brothers—still a brotherhood they seem;— More firm united, since a common woe Hath brought to common hopes their overthrow!

Brave souls and true;—in toil and danger tried,— I see them still as in those glorious years, When strong, and battling bravely side by side, All crowned their deeds with praise,—and some with tears 'Tis done! the sword is sheathed; the banner furled, No sound where late the crashing missile whirled— The dead alone possess the battle-plain; The living turn them to life's cares again.

Oh, Silence! blessed dreams upon thee wait; here Thought and Feeling ope their precious store, And Memory, gathering from the spoils of Fate Love's scattered treasures, brings them back once more! So let me often dream, As up the brightening stream Of olden Time, thought gently leads me on, Seeking those better days, lost, lost, alas! and gone!



All Is Gone.

Fadette.—Memphis Appeal.



Sister, hark! Atween the trees cometh naught but summer breeze? All is gone— Summer breezes come and go. Hope doth never wander so— No, nor evermore doth Woe.

Sister, look! Adown the lane treadeth only April rain? All is gone— Through the tangled hedge-rows green glimmer thus the sunbeam's sheen, Dropping from cloud-rifts between?

Sister, hark! the very air heavy on my heart doth bear— All is gone!— E'en the birds that chirped erewhile for the frowning sun to smile, Hush at that drum near the stile.

Sister, pray!—it is the foe! On thy knees—aye, very low— All is gone, And the proud South on her knees to a mongrel race like these— But the dead sleep 'neath the trees.

See—they come—their banners flare gayly in our gloomy air— All is gone— Flashed our Southern Cross all night—naught but a meteoric light In a moment lost to sight?

Aye, so gay—the brave array—marching from no battle fray— All is gone,— Yet who vaunteth, of your host, maketh he but little boast If he think on battles most.

On they wind, behind the wood. Dost remember once we stood— All is gone— All but memory, of those days—but we've stood here while the haze Of the battle met the blaze.

Of the sun adown yon hill. Charge on charge—I hear them still.— All is gone!— Yet I hear the echoing crash—see the sabres gleam and flash— See one gallant headlong dash.

One, amid the battle-wreck, restive plunged his charger black— All is gone— Whirrs the partridge there—didst see where he rode so recklessly? Once he turned and waved to me.

"Ah," thou saidst, "the smoke is dark, scarce can I our banner mark"— All is gone— All but memory; yet I see, darksome howsoever it be, How to death—to death—rode he.

Not a star he proudly bore, but a sword all dripping gore— All is gone— Dashes on our little band like yon billow on the strand— Like yon strand unmoved they stand.

For their serried ranks are strong: thousands upon thousands throng— All is gone, And the handful, true and brave, spent, like yonder dying wave, Fall back slowly from that grave.

Low our banner drooped—and fell. Back he spurs, mid shot and shell— All was gone, But he waves it high—and then, on—we sweep them from the glen— But he ne'er rode back again.

Ah, I smiled to see him go. How my cheek with pride did glow! All is gone— All, of pride or hope, for me—but that evening, hopefully Stood I at the gate with thee,

Sister, when at twilight gray marched our soldiers back this way— All is gone— In the woods rang many a cheer—how we smiled! I did not fear Till—at last was borne a bier.

Sweetest sister, dost thou weep? Hush! he only fell asleep— All is gone— And'twere better he had died—free, whatever us betide— Our galling chains untried.

We were leaning on the gate. Dost remember, it grew late— All is gone— Yet I see the stars so pale—see the shadows down the vale— Hear the whip-poor-will's far wail,

As if all were in a dream. Through yon pines the moon did gleam— All is gone— On that banner-pall of death—on that red sword without sheath— And—I knew who lay beneath.

Did I speak? I thought I said, let me look upon your dead— All is gone—- Was I cold? I did not weep. Tears are spray from founts not deep— My heart lies in frozen sleep.

Sister, pray for me. Thine eyes gleam like God's own midnight skies— All is gone— Tuneless are my spirit's chords. I but look up, like the birds, And trust Christ to say the words.



Bowing Her Head.



Her head is bowed downwards; so pensive her air, As she looks on the ground with her pale, solemn face, It were hard to decide whether faith or despair, Whether anguish or trust, in her heart holds a place.

Her hair was all gold in the sun's joyous light, Her brow was as smooth as the soft, placid sea: But the furrows of care came with shadows of night, And the gold silvered pale when the light left the lea.

Her lips slightly parted, deep thought in her eye, While sorrow cuts seams in her forehead so fair; Her bosom heaves gently, she stifles a sigh, And just moistens her lid with the dews of a tear.

Why droops she thus earthward—why bends she? Oh, see! There are gyves on her limbs! see her manacled hand! She is loaded with chains; but her spirit is free— Free to love and to mourn for her desolate land.

Her jailer, though cunning, lacks wit to devise How to fetter her thoughts, as her limbs he has done; The eagle that's snatched from his flight to the skies, From the bars of his cage may still gaze at the sun.

No sound does she utter; all voiceless her pains; The wounds of her spirit with pride she conceals; She is dumb to her shearers; the clank of her chains And the throbs of her heart only tell what she feels.

She looks sadly around her; now sombre the scene! How thick the deep shadows that darken her view! The black embers of homes where the earth was so green, And the smokes of her wreck where the heavens shone blue.

Her daughters bereaved of all succor but God, Her bravest sons perished—the light of her eyes; But oppression's sharp heel does not cut 'neath the sod, And she knows that the chains cannot bind in the skies.

She thinks of the vessel she aided to build, Of all argosies richest that floated the seas; Compacted so strong, framed by architects skilled, Or to dare the wild storm, or to sail to the breeze.

The balmiest winds blowing soft where she steers, The favor of heaven illuming her path— She might sail as she pleased to the mild summer airs, And avoid the dread regions of tempest and wrath.

But the crew quarrelled soon o'er the cargo she bore; 'Twas adjusted unfairly, the cavillers said; And the anger of men marred the peace that of yore Spread a broad path of glory and sunshine ahead.

There were seams in her planks—there were spots on her flag— So the fanatics said, as they seized on her helm; And from soft summer seas, turned her prow where the crag And the wild breakers rose the good ship to overwhelm.

Then the South, though true love to the vessel she bore, Since she first laid its keel in the days that were gone— Saw it plunge madly on to the wild billows' roar, And rush to destruction and ruin forlorn.

So she passed from the decks, in the faith of her heart That justice and God her protectors would be; Not dashed like a frail, fragile spar, without chart, In the fury and foam of the wild raging sea.

The life-boat that hung by the stout vessel's side She seized, and embarked on the wide, trackless main, In the faith that she'd reach, making virtue her guide, The haven the mother-ship failed to attain

But the crew rose in wrath, and they swore by their might They would sink the brave boat that did buffet the sea, For daring to seek, by her honor and right, A new port from the storms, a new home for the free.

So they crushed the brave boat; all forbearance they lost; They littered with ruins the ocean so wild— Till the hulk of the parent ship, beaten and tossed, Drifted prone on the flood by the wreck of the child.

And the bold rower, loaded with fetters and chains, In the gloom of her heart sings the proud vessel's dirge; Half forgets, in its wreck, all the pangs of her pains, As she sees its stout parts floating loose in the surge.

Savannah Broadside.



The Confederate Flag

By Anna Feyre Dinnies, of Louisiana.



Take that banner down,'tis weary, Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary, Furl it, hide it, let it rest; For there's not a man to wave it— For there's not a soul to lave it In the blood that heroes gave it. Furl it, hide it, let it rest.

Take that banner down,'tis tattered; Broken is its staff, and shattered; And the valiant hearts are scattered Over whom it floated high. Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it— Hard to think there's none to hold it— Hard that those, who once unrolled it, Now must furl it with a sigh.

Furl that banner, furl it sadly; Once six millions hailed it gladly, And three hundred thousand, madly, Swore it should forever wave— Swore that foeman's sword should never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever— That their flag should float forever O'er their freedom or their grave!

Furl it, for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; And that banner—it is trailing, While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe; For, though conquered, they adore it, Love the cold, dead hands that bore it, Weep for those who fell before it— Oh! how wildly they deplore it, Now to furl and fold it so!

Furl that banner; true 'tis gory, But 'tis wreathed around with glory, And'twill live in song and story, Though its folds are in the dust; For its fame, on brightest pages— Sung by poets, penned by sages— Shall go sounding down to ages— Furl its folds though now we must.

Furl that banner-softly, slowly; Furl it gently, it is holy, For it droops above the dead. Touch it not, unfurl it never, Let it droop there, furled forever, For its people's hopes are fled.



Ashes of Glory.

A. J. Requier.



Fold up the gorgeous silken sun, By bleeding martyrs blest, And heap the laurels it has won Above its place of rest.

No trumpet's note need harshly blare— No drum funereal roll— Nor trailing sables drape the bier That frees a dauntless soul!

It lived with Lee, and decked his brow From Fate's empyreal Palm: It sleeps the sleep of Jackson now— As spotless and as calm.

It was outnumbered—not outdone; And they shall shuddering tell, Who struck the blow, its latest gun Flashed ruin as it fell.

Sleep, shrouded Ensign! not the breeze That smote the victor tar, With death across the heaving seas Of fiery Trafalgar;

Not Arthur's knights, amid the gloom Their knightly deeds have starred; Nor Gallic Henry's matchless plume, Nor peerless-born Bayard;

Not all that antique fables feign, And Orient dreams disgorge; Nor yet, the Silver Cross of Spain, And Lion of St. George,

Can bid thee pale! Proud emblem, still Thy crimson glory shines Beyond the lengthened shades that fill Their proudest kingly lines.

Sleep! in thine own historic night,— And be thy blazoned scroll, A warrior's Banner takes its flight, To greet the warrior's soul!

THE END