LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. GIFT OK Received Accession No. 7/ 7 1{~J Class No. I THE OUTHERN AMARANTH, EDITED BY /VLlSS J3ALLIE ,A. -J3ROCK NEW YORK : WILCOX & ROCKWELL, SUCCESSORS TO BLELOCK & Co., 49 MERCER ST. 1869. 7 / 7 V/ Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, WILCOX & ROCKWELL, In the Clerk s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. THE MEMOBT OF THE nf tft er a tje g I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME. Can that man be dead Whose spiritual influence is upon his kind ? He lives in glory ; and his speaking dust Has more of life than half its breathing moulds. Miss LAKDOM, Death is another life. BAILET. THE design of this work was conceived in an individual clesire to offer a testimonial of gratitude to the memories of the brave men who perished in the late ineffectual effort for SOUTHERN INDEPENDENCE ; as well as in a wish to render to my Southern sisters some assistance in gather ing up the remains of the CONFEDEEATE DEAD, from the numberless battle-fields over which they were scattered, and placing them where the rude ploughshare may not upturn their bleaching bones, and where sorrowing friends may at least drop a tear, and lay a, flower upon the grass- covered hillocks that mark their resting-places. Like Ruth after the gleaners of Boaz, I entered the field in expectation of finding only an occasional idyl for my culling; but the growth of Southern sentiment seems destined to be perennial and inexhaustible, and I deeply regret that a vast number of beautiful and worthy productions are compelled for want of space to be crowded out of this volume. When the grape is crushed, the rich ruddy wine must flow; so when the heart joys or sorrows, it delights to ex pand its emotion in the flow of verse. The muse of the .Southland is one of tireless wing, and though her theme is lofty and glorious as the golden sunset splendor upon ifche purple sky of e v^ening, her song is often as sad as the VI PREFACE. weary echoes of the winter wind through her matchless forests the mournful wailings of broken hearts. Grateful acknowledgments are here tendered the many kind friends who have so deeply sympathized with and generously assisted me in making this collection. In the language of one whose noble soul is bowed with grief over the martyred slain: "All we can now do is to sing at the graves of our Dead ; but sing as we may, in lofty strains or lowly, our songs can never express all our feelings can never celebrate all their fame. A crown such as our Dead deserve to wear, will never be wreathed for them, but it is our duty to gather garlands, which if not beautiful enough for their brows, we can humbly lay at their feet." Therefore, such as it is, dear reader, I cheerfully and proudly present "THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH," hoping it may be considered a not unworthy offering to the memo ries of men whose deeds are worthy of more than ever songs of poets can tell. S. A. B. NEW YOKK, March, 1, 1868. CONTENTS. Poems marked with an asterisk [*] are special contributions. SENTINEL SONGS Moina, [Kev. A. J. Byan]. 13 SONNET Paul H. Hayne. 15 PRIZE POEM Ibid. 16 PASCAGOULA Anonymous. 26 PEACE L. Burroughs. 30 HOME AFTER THE WAR M. E. H. 32 SOUTHERN CHANT OP DEFIANCE Catherine A. Warfield. 34 THE FALL OF RICHMOND Sallie A. Brock. 36 THE STORY OF THE POWHATAN Ibid. 46 THE SUBSTITUTE Paul H. Hayne. 61 PRIZE POEM (Address) Henry Timrod. 67 THE GUERRILLAS S. Teackle Wallis. 71 COERCION John R. Thompson. 74 THE SOUTHERN CROSS St. George Tucker. 76 THE MEN Maurice Bell. 78 WOMAN S WAR MISSION Anon, 79 THE BATTLE CRY OF THE SOUTH James B. Randall. 82 OUR FAITH IN SIXTY-ONE A. J. Bequier. 85 SEVENTY-SIX AND SIXTY-ONE John W. Overall. 88 A BALLAD FOR THE YOUNG SOUTH Joseph Brennan. 89 THERE is LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET. .James R. Randall. 93 THE SCOUT Sans Souci. 95 ON TO KICHMOND John B. Thompson. 97 THE MONUMENT OAK AND PINE J. B. Barrick 102 THE WAYSIDE ROSE Dr. John M. Johnson. 104 THE CHARGE BY THE FORD Thomas Dunn English. 105 OF VERY FAITHFULNESS Mollie E. Moore. 107 THE VICTORY OF FAITH Col. Wm. S. Hawkins. 109 BAIN IN THE HEART Anon. 113 THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY .... Dr. Frank O. Ticknor. 114 A PRAYER Fadette (Author of Ingemisco). 115 THE CLOSING SCENE Thos. Buchanan Read. 118 THE TENNESSEE EXELE S SONG " 121 THE SOUTHERN WIFE Walker Meriwether Bell. 122 WILLIE 124 WOMAN S E E Gen. S. B. Buckner. 126 THE KENTUCKY PARTISAN Paul H. Hayne. 127 Vlii CONTENTS. THE TOAST OF MORGAN S MEN Captain Thorpe. 130 THE EMPTY SLEEVE Dr. G. W. Bagby. 130 ENGLAND S NEUTRALITY John R. Thompson. 133 SCENES Paul H. Hayne. 139 SPRING Henry Timrod. 140 A PRAYER A Southern Mother. 143 LIBERA Nos, O DOMI-NE James Barron Hope. 144 GATHERING SONG Annie Chambers Ketchum. 147 To A MOCKING-BIRD E. F. W. 148 THE TROOPER TO HIS STEED Susan Archer Talley. 150 THE LITTLE WHITE GLOVE Paul H. Hayne. 154 ALL S WELL Margaret J. Preston. 156 GETTYSBURG Dr. Edward L. Warner. 158 THE BROKEN SWORD Walker Merriwether Bell. 159 THE MARCH or THE SPOILER Anon. 161 THE CAMEO BRACELET James R. Randall. 162 OUB SHIP* Henry L. Flash. 163 DROWNED, DROWNED* Catherine A.. Warfield. 165 THE TRIPLE BARRED BANNER Anon. 166 BITTER ALOES X. J. Requier. 167 SEMMES SWORD f Anon. 169 THE BROKEN MUG John Esten Cooke. 171 MINDING THE GAP Mollie E. Moore. 176 FAREWELL TO GALVESTON Col. A. M. Hobby. 179 ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC TO-NIGHT. . .Lamar Fontaine. 183 MY MARYLAND James R. Randall. 185 THE SERGEANT S STORY* Charles Dinritry. 188 WOVEN FANCIES* Fanny Downing. 191 AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LINES AROUND PETERSBURG Samuel M. Davies. 193 THE BATTLE RAINBOW . .John R. Thompson. 196 RODES BRIGADE CHARGE AT SEVEN PINES W. P. C. 198 CARMEN TRIUMPHALE Henry Timrod. 199 FROM THE RAPIDAN Anon. 201 SONNET (the South) Anon. 202 LINES (to General N. B. Forrest)* Rosalie Miller. 203 THE DEVIL S DELIGHT John K. Thompson. 205 THE BRAVE AT HOME Anon. 208 CLOUDS IN THE WEST A. J. Requier. 209 SONG OF THE FIRST VIRGINIA CAVALRY Anon. 211 STUART Paul H. Hayne. 213 A WORD WITH THE WEST John R. Thompson. 216 THE GOOD OLD CAUSE John D. Phelan. 219 THE SOLDIER S PRAYER Margaret J. Preston. 221 THE CHAPLAIN S PRAYER Ibid. 222 GOD SAVE THE SOUTHERN LAND S. Francis Cameron. 223 THE SNOW* Walker Meriwether Bell. 225 IN THE LAND WHERE WE WERE DREAMING Dan B. Lucas. 226 O TEMPORA, MORES Dr. J. Dickson Bruns. 229 DIXIE Fanny Downing. 234 DIXIE Gen. Albert Pike. 232 A BATTLE CALL TO KENTUCKY Walker Meriwether Bell. 236 THE OLD RIFLEMAN . .Dr. Frank O. Ticknor. 237 CONTENTS. IX THE RIFLEMAN S FANCY SHOT Anon. 239 OUR FAILURE Catherine A. "Wai-field. 240 SONG OF THE SOUTH Dan. B. Lucas. 243 MANASSAS Catherine A. Warfield. 245 SCENE IN A COUNTRY HOSPITAL Paul H. Hayne. 246 THE SOUTHERN PATRIOT S LAMENT Written in Ft. Warren. 248 A CRY TO ASMS Henry Timrod. 250 THE SWORD OF EGBERT LEE Eev. Abram J. Eyan. 252 A HEALTH General S. B. Buckner . 254 THE WAR CHRISTIAN S THANKSGIVING S. Teackle Wallis. 255 A PRAYER FOR PEACE Ibid. 257 CANNON SONG Anon. 260 Music IN CAMP .John R. Thompson. 261 THE TREES OF THE SOUTH Rev. Abram J. Ryan. 264 BEYOND THE POTOMAC Paul H. Hayne. 265 PROMISE OF SPRING Anon. 267 THE BAREFOOTED BOYS " 269 " WE COME 1 WE COME !" Millie Mayfield. 270 " VENGEANCE is MINE 1" Walker Meriwether Bell. 272 BEATJREGARD S APPEAL Paul H. Hayne. 273 MELT THE BELLS F. O. Eockett. 275 WHAT THE VILLAGE BELL SAID John C. McLemore. 276 THE COTTON BOLL Henry Timrod. 278 AT FORT PILLOW James E. Eandall. 284 THE UNFOBGOTTEN W. Winston Fontaine. 287 BUTLER S PROCLAMATION Paul H. Hayne. 288 LETTER Anon. 290 EEBELS, TIS A HOLY NAME Eev. M. Garesche. 293 YES, CALL us EEBELS Gen. Albert Pike. 294 GOD SAVE THE SOUTH George H. Miles. 296 VIRGINIA (In Memoriam) Anon. 298, VIRGINIA. (A Sonnet) Margaret J. Preston. 303 SURRENDER OF THE A. N. Va Florence Anderson. 304 VIRGINIA CAPTA Margaret J. Preston. 306 THE EAISING OF THE BRONZE STATUE Innis Randolph. 308 VIRGINIA Furr John E. Thompson. 309 Sic SEMPER TYJJAKNIS Fanny Downing. 311 TRIBUTE TO A HEEO W. W. Mr*m>. 314 THE OLD CRIB Mary E. Tucker. 31 VICKSBURG Paul H. Hayne. 318 CHARLESTON Henry Timrod. 320 CHARLESTON Paul H. Hayne. 322 17761861 C Washington. 324 \/ HYMN TO THE DAWN A. J. Requier. 325 CUB CITY BY THE SEA W. Gilmore Simms. 327 THE ANGEL OF THE CHUBCH Ibid. 332 CAROLINA Anna Peyre Dinnies. 325 SAVANNAH FALLEN Alethea S. Burroughs. 337 SHERMANIZED L. Virginia French. 339 SONG OF THE SNOW Margaret J. Preston . 342 WATCHING Annie E. Ketchum. 344 THE SOLDIEB BOY Hon. W. D: Porter. 346 X CONTENTS. LEE TO THE REAR John R. Thompson. 347 ROBEBT E. LEE Mary Bayard Clark. 351 */ HUSH ! Walker Meriwether Bell. 352 A HEKO S DAUGHTEE Margaret J. Preston. 354 THE SOUTHERN CBOSS E. Key Blount. 356 CUE SOUTHEEN WOMEN Mrs. C. A. Ball. 358 THE MISSOUEI CAPTAIN Mary E. Bryan. 360 THE FRONT A. R. Watson. 366 ETHNOGENESIS Henry Timrod. 368 JEFFERSON DAVIS James L. Boweu. 372 ^ VM VICTIS Anon. 375 To THE FRIENDS or OLD DAYS M. C. 379 JEFFERSON DAVIS Walker Meriwether Bell. 381 -^ REGULUS Margaret J. Preston. 382 PEOMETHEUS VINCTUS Fanny Downing. 383 PRESIDENT DAVIS Jane T. Cross. 386 STAND FIBM* Julia C. Mintziug. 389 PAGE BROOK Dr. F. O. Ticknor. 391 WHEN THE WAE is OVEE Margaret J. Preston. 392 CHRISTMAS Henry Timrod. 395 HOLLY AND CYPRESS Fanny Downing. 398 STORM AND CALM Henry Timrod. 401 WELCOME HOME Walker Meriwether Bell. 402 THE WAE GOES ON Anon. 404 THE JACKET OP GREY C. A. Ball. 407 DOFFING THE GEEY Lieutenant Falligant. 409 CUTTING OFF THE BUTTONS S. A. Brock. 410 THE CONFEDERATE BILL Major S. A. Jonas. 413 ASHES OF GLORY A. J. Requier. 414 THE CONFEDERATE FLAG H. L. Flash. 416 THE BLESSED HAND H. Teackle Wallis. 4J.7 THE CONFEDERATE FLAG Anon. 419 THE CONQUERED BANNER Rev. A. J. Ryan. 421 KEEP IT STILL Sir Henry do Hoghton. 423 THE LOST CAUSE Dr. Thomas Dunn English. 424 POOR TOM Dr. F. O. Ticknor. 426 THE MAGTC LAMP Miss M. L. Meany. 427 THE CONSTITUTION PI. Ballard. 433 THE SOUTHERN LYRE Paul H. Hayne. 434 A. J. Requier. 442 MEMORIAL POEMS. PRIZE POEM (TWILIGHT AT HOLLYWOOD) Jnnis Randolph. 444 JACKSON, THE ALEXANDRIA MAETYE Dr. W. H. HoJcombe. 447 OUE DEAD Col. A. M. Hobby. 448 CHARLES B. DEEUX James R. Randall. 451 ZOLLICOFFEE Harry L. Flash. 453 SLAIN IN BATTLE Margaret J. Preston. 454 CONTENTS. XJ IJIEUTENANT HENRY LEWIS A Lady. 455 THE SOLDIER S GRAVE Pearl. 457 THE UNKNOWN DEAD Hemy Timrod. 458 GENERAL ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON James L. Bowen. 451* BURIAL OF ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON* Mollie E. Moore. 465 MUMFORD Ina M. Porter. 468 MUMFORD S GRAVE By his Widow. 469- ANNIE CARTER LEE Mary B. Clarke. 470 A DREAM VISIT* Loula W. Rogers. 472 THE BURIAL OF CAPT. O. JENNINGS WISE Accomac. 476 COL. B. F. TERRY J. R. Barrick. 477 ASHBY John R. Thompson. 479 DIRGE FOR ASHBY Margaret J. Preston. 480 THE GRAVE OF ASHBY By Old Fogy. 482 THE BURIAL OF LATANE John R. Thompson. 483 MEMORIA SACRUM James Barren Hope. 485 IN MEMOEIAM, D. J. R Rev. A. J. Ryan. 489 OUR NOBLE DEAD John E. Hatcher. 490 READING THE LIST Anon. 492 STONEWALL JACKSON S WAY A CLOU. 493 / STONEWALL JACKSON Paul H. Hayne. 495 STONEWALL JACKSON Harry L. Flash. 499 \ JACKSON (A sonnet) Margaret J. Preston. 501 MONODY ON THE DEATH OF STONEWALL JACKSON By the Exile. 501 STONEWALL JACKSON Anon. 503 LINES ON THE DEATH OF STONEWALL JACKSON " 504 STONEWALL JACKSON S PALL Virginia Madison. 507 THE BATTLE-EVE , Susan Archer Tally. 510 A DIRGE ON THE DEATH OF LIEUT. -GEN. JACKSON Catherine A. "Warfield. 511 His LAST WORDS Anon. 514 OVER THE RIVER E. de Mondion. 515 STONEWALL JACKSON S GRAVE Margaret J. Preston. 516 THE LONE SENTRY James R. Randall. 520 STONEWALL JACKSON The Kilkenny Man. 522 WHO SHALL BE OUR STANDARD BEARER Charles Dimitry. 525 THE STONEWALL CEMETERY Mary B. Clarke. 529 MISERERE Ina M. Porter. 531 MISSING Anon. 532 DEAD Anon. 533 AN UNKNOWN HERO W. Gordon McCabe. 536 LEONIDAS POLK Fanny Downing. 538 POLK Harry L. Flash. 54C THE CONFEDERATE DEAD By Latienne. 54C GEN. JOHN B. FLOYD By Eulalie. 543 CCL. W. S. HAWKINS 544 JOHN PELHAM James R. Randall. 546 THE BAND IN THE PINES John Esten Cooke. 548 TEE UNRETURNTNG Anon. 548 STUART W. Winston Fontaine. 55C GEN. J. E. B. STUART John R. Thompson. 552 THE SOLDIER WHO DIED TO-DAY. . , Anon. 555 Xll CONTENTS. JOHN PEGKAM W. Gordon McCabe. 557 JAMES BUBWELL* His Mother. 559 THE LETTEB TO THE DEAD Dr. Thomas Dunn English. 562 GEOEGE WYTHE RANDOLPH John K. Thompson. 565 OUB MABTYBS .Paul H. Hayue. 568 GLKBUBKE M. A. Jennings. 570 CAPTAIN BEALL Col. Hawkins. 572 SONNET Paul H. Hayne. 573 SMITH CALVEET S. A. Brock. 974 THE DYING SOLDIEB Matilda Edwards. 577 THE CONFEDEBATE DEAD Mary Sheney. 580 PATBIOT HEBOES IN THE SIGHT or GOD Anon. 584 HENBY TIMBOD , Sallie A. Brock. 586 ODE Henry Timrod. 588 CEDAEVILLE Juliette T. Burton. 589 Gov. HENBY WATKINS ALLEN Col. A. M. Hobby. 592 LITTLE GIFFEN Dr. F. O. Ticknor. 597 LINES TO GEN. S. B. BUCKNEE Kosarita. 699 REPLY TO KOSAEITA S. B. Buckner. 600 SOMEBODY S DABLING Miss Maria La Coste. 601 DEATH OB VICTOBI: Virginia L. French. 603 A RF.BEL THAT DIED Amanda L. Patton. 607 McKENDBEE J. E. BeiTick. 610 THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD Col. Theodore O Hara. 612 BEING FLOWEBS J. K. Barrick. 616 GEN. STEELING PEICE M. P. S. 617 MAJOR T. M. N Anon. 618 GEN. OTHO F. STEAHL By F. 620 THE MANY NAMELESS Mary Mullaly. 621 VIRGINIA S DEAD 623 Too YOUNG TO DIE John B. Smith. 626 A PRAYER FOR PEACE S. Y. Levy. 648 BURY ME ON THE FIELD, BOYS Mary S. Grayson. 630 MAXCY GREGG C. G. P. 631 THE ASHBYS Dan. B. Lucas. 635 THE BURIAL OF BRIG.-GEN. M. JENKINS C. G. P. 637 DECORATING THE GRAVES OF OUR DEAD Leola. 639 THE TOMB OF ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON (Epitaph) 641 IN MEMORIAM D. J. R Moina. 643 THE LAND OF MEMORIES A. J. Ryan. 647 OF THE IWIVEBSITY THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY MOINA. (BEV. FATHER ABBAM J. BTAN, OF TENNESSEE.) sinks the soldier brave Dead at the feet of wrong, The poet sings and guards his grave With sentinels of song. " Go songs," he gives command Keep faithful watch and true ; The living and dead of the Conquered Land Have now no guards save you. " And ballads ! mark ye well, Thrice holy is your trust ; Go out to the fields where warriors fell, And sentinel their dust" And the songs in stately rhyme, With softly sounding tread March forth to watch till the end of time y Beside the silent dead. 14 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And when the foeman s host And hate have passed away, Our guard of songs shall keep their post Around our soldiers clay. A thousand dawns may glow. A thousand days may wane, The deathless songs where the dead lie low r True to the last remain. Yea, true ! They will not yield To tyrants or to time. At every grave, and on every field Where men died deaths sublime, Lone vigils they will keep, Obedient to their bard, And they will watch when we shall sleep Our last and only guard. What though our victors say No column shall be built Above the graves where the men in grey Lie mouldering in their guilt ? Ah ! let the tyrant curse The dead he tramples down ! Our strong, brave songs, in their sweet, sad verse^ Fear not the tyrant s frown. What though no sculptured shaft Commemorate our brave ? | What though no monument epitaph ed Be built above their grave ? THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. 15 When marble wears away, And roonuments are dust, The songs that guard our soldiers clay Will still fulfill their trust YOKE FREEMAN S JOUENAL. BRAVE DEEDS BKAVE FRUITS. BY W. OILMOBE SIMMS, OF SOUTH CAROLINA. THE record should be made of each brave deed That brings us Pride and Freedom as its fruits, So that while tending on the vigorous shoots, Our children may perpetuate the seed ; And, naught forgetting of the glorious Past, Lay good foundations in the Future s womb, So when the hardy sire succumbs at last, The emulous son may still defend his tomb. Thus chronicled the mighty deed begets Still mightier ; and the column, soaring high, Speaks his tones that the brave son ne er forgets ! He, too, will conquer will not fear to die ! Heading the fight, will man the breach and prove His valor not unworthy of his love. SOUTHERN OPINION. THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. jgtito f mm. IN LAUDATION OF THE DEEDS, VALOE, SUFFERINGS AND SACRI FICES OF THE CONFEDERATE SOLDIERS. BY PAUL H. HAYNE, OF SOUTH CAROLINA. The Confederates in the field Illustration Ihe first battle of Manas- ses Confederates in the bivouac Confederates in the hospital Conclusion. WITH bayonets slanted in the glittering light, . With solemn roll of drums, j. With starlit banners rustling wings of might, The knightly concourse comes ! The flower and fruit of all the tropic lands The unsheathed brightness of their stainless brands Blazing in courtly hands One glorious soul within those human eyes One aim, one hope, one impulse from the skies While silent, awed and dumb, A nation waits the end in dread surmise, They come 1 they come ! The summer flaunts her vivid leaves above The unwonted scene The summer heavens embrace with smiles of love The hill-slopes green ; Far in the uppermost realms of silent air Peace sits enthroned and happy, but on earth The cymbals clash, and the shrill trumpets blare, And Death, like some grim mower on the plain Topped by the ripe grain, Whets his keen scythe and shakes it fearfully. OF ITNIVEKSITY THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. 17 Our serried lines march sternly to the front, "Where, decked as if they rose to celebrate A joyous festal morn, In glistening pomp and splendid blazonry, Slow-moving as in scorn Of those weak bands that guard the pass below, Come, gorgeous, flushed and proud, the cohorts of the foe! They wheel ! deploy, are stationed down the cleft Of the long gorge their signals thunders run ! A sullen answer echoes from our left, And the great fight s begun ! ! who will picture the immortal fray ? Our Southern host that day Breasted the onset of the invading sea "With wills of adamant ; but stern- weighted strength, Like waves of some infernal alchemy Hardened, transformed to solid metal, burning At white heat as they struck, and aye returning Hotter, and more resistless than before, (All flecked atop with foam of human gore,) Pierced here and there our crumbling ranks at length, "Which as a mountain shore, Eock-ribbed and iron-founded, still had stood And outward hurled In bloody sprayings, that tremendous flood Which with wild charge and furious brunt to brunt, Had dashed against us like a fiery world ! Unceasing still poured on the fearful tide, And plumed victory ever seemed to ride On the red billows of the northland war I 18 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Our glory and pride Had fallen fallen in the terrible van Like wine the life-streams ran ; " Back ! back !" cried one, (it was the voice of Bee., Lifted in wrath and bitter agony,) " We re driven backward !" unto whom there came An answer, like the rush of steady flame Twixt ribs of iron, " We will give them yet The bayonet ! The sharp edge of the Southern bayonet 1" At which the other s face flushed up, and caught Light like a warrior-angel s, and he sprang To the front rank, while, swift as passionate thought, Leaped forth his sword, and this high summons rang: " See ! see I where calm and grand Like a stonewall the braves of Jackson stand ! Forward !" and on he rushed with quivering breath, On to his Spartan death ! Unceasing still poured down the fearful tide, And plumed victory ever seemed to ride O er the red billows of the northland war ! When faint and far, Far on our left, there rose a sound that thrilled All souls, and even the battle s thunderous pulse, (Or so we deemed,) for a briefest space was stilled : A sound, low-hissing as a meteor star, But gathering depth of volume, till it burst In one great flame-like cheer, That seemed to rend and lift the cloud accurst, The poison-clinging cloud That wrapped us like a shroud, While wounded men leaped on their feet to hear, THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And dying men upraised their eyes to see How on the conflict s lowering canopy, Dawned the first rainbow hues of victory ! Have you watched the condor leap From his .proud Andean rock, And with hurtling pinions sweep On the valley -pasturing flock ? Have you watched an Eygre vast On the rude September blast, Roll adown with curved crest O er the low sands of the West ? O ! thus and thus they came, (Four thousand men and more,) Hearts, faces, all aflame, And the grandeur of their wrath Whirled the tyrant from their path, As the frightened rack is driven, By the unleashed winds of heaven ; Then, maddened, tossed about In a reckless, hopeless rout, The Northern army fled O er their dying and their dead ; And the Southern steel flashed out, And their vengeful points were red With the hot heart s tide that flow d Where they sabred as they rode 1 And the news sped on apace, (Where the rulers in their place -Sat jubilant, one and all,) Till a shadow seemed to fall Round their joy ance like a pall, And the inmost Senate hall 20 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Pealed an echo of disgrace ! At the set of July s sun They stood quivering and undone For the eagle standards waned, and the Southern " stars 7r had won ! Thus loomed serene and large Upon that desperate contest s lurid marge Our orb of destiny : millions of hearts Throb with bold exultation, And there starts From mountain fastness and from waving plain, From wooded swamp and mist-encircled main From hamlet, city, field, And the rich midland weald, The spirit of the antique Hero Time ! ! twas a sight sublime To watch the upheaval of the popular soul The stormy gathering, the majestic roll Upward of its wild forces, by the awe Of right and justice steadied into law ! Faith lent our cause its heavenly consecration, Hope its omnipotent might ! And Fame stood ready, with her flowers of light, To crown alike the living and the dead, "While in the broadening firmament o erhead "We seemed to read the fiat of our fate, "Ye are baptized a nation! Amongst the freest, free amongst the mightiest, great ! 7 An ominous hush 1 and then the scattered clouds In the dark northern heaven, (Clouds of a deadliest strife,) Urged by the poison wind THE SOUTHERN A&Bs&Hr"- 21 Of crime and rapine, sullenly combined, Charged with the bolts of ruin ! What were shrouds Crimsoned with gore the widowed spirit riven The desecration of God s gift of life, To that one thought, (three fiendish strands uniting Hot from a hellish loom,) " Conquest !" " Eevenge !" " Supremacy ?" The blighting Of untold promises, the grief, the gloom, The desolate madness, and the anguish blind, And spreading on and on From murdered sire to subjugated son, Were less than nothing to the arrogant pride Which treaties, compacts, honor, law defied, And aimed above the wrecks of temple and tower To rear the symbols of its merciless power ! Four deadly years we fought, Kinged by a girdle of unfaltering fire, That coiled and hissed in lessening circles nigher. Blood dyed the Southern wave : From ocean border to calm inland river, There was no pause, no peace, no respite ever. Blood of our bravest brave Drenched in a scarlet rain the western lea, Swelled the hoarse waters of the Tennessee, Incarnadined the gulfs, the lakes, the rills, And, from a hundred hills, Steamed in a mist of slaughter to the skies, Shutting all hope of heaven from mortal eyes. The Beaufort blooms were withered on the stem , Their fair gulf city in a single night 22 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH, Lost her imperial diadem ; And whereso er men s troubled vision sought, They viewed MIGHT towering o er the humbled crest of EIGHT ! But for a time, but for a time, 0, God ! The innate forces of our knightly blood Eallied, and by the mount, the fen, the flood, Upraised the tottering standards of our race. 0, grand Virginia ! though thy glittering glaive Lies sullied, shattered in a ruthless grave How flashed it once ! They dug their trenches deep, (The implacable foe,) they ranged their lines of wrath ; But watchful ever on the imminent path, Thy steel-clad genius stood ; North, South, East, West, they strove to pierce shield ; Thou would st not yield! Until, unconquered. yea, unconquered still NATURE S weakened forces answered not thy WILL, And gored with wound on wound, Thy fainting limbs and forehead sought the ground ;; And with thee, the young nation fell, a pall Solemn and rayless, covering one and all ! God s ways are marvellous ; here we stand to-day Discrowned, and shorn in wildest disarray, The mock of earth ! yet never shone the sun On sterner deeds, or nobler victories won. Not in the field alone ; ah, come with me To the dim bivouac by the winter s sea ; Mark the fair sons of courtly mothers crouck THE PRIZE POEM. 23 Over the fires ; but gallant still and gay As on some bright parade ; or mark the couch In reeking hospitals, whereon is laid The latest scion of a line perchance Whose veins were royal ; close your blurred romance Blurred by the dropping of a maudlin tear, And watch the manhood here ; That firm but delicate countenance, Distorted sometimes by an awful pang Borne in meek patience. When the trumpets rang " To horse !" but y ester morn, that ardent boy Sprang to his charger, thrilled with hope and joy To the very finger tips ; and now he lies, The shadow deepening in those falcon eyes, But calm and undismay d, As if the death that chills him brow and breast, Were some fond bride, who whispered, "Let us rest!" Enough ! tis over ! the last gleam of hope Hath melted from our mournful horoscope Of all, of all bereft ; Only to us are left Our buried heroes and their matchless deeds ; These cannot pass ; they hold the vital seeds Which in some far, untracked, unvisioned hour, May burst to vivid bud and glorious flower. Meanwhile, upon the nation s broken heart Her martyrs sleep. 0, dearer far to her, Than if each son a wreathed conqueror, Eode in triumphant state The loftiest crest of fate : O, dearer far, because outcast and low, She yearns above them in her awful woe. 24 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. One spring its tender blooms Hath lavished richly by those hallowed tombs ; One summer its imperial largess spread Along our heroes bed ; One autumn wailing with funereal blast, The withered leaves and pallid dust amassed All round about them, till bleak winter now Hangs hoar-frost on the grasses, and the bough In dreary woodlands seems to thrill and start, Thrill to the anguish of the wind that raves Across those lonely, desolated graves ! Can we forget ? Christ, can we forget What hath been ? Though a thousand suns should set And rise on opulent towns, And the fair flocks along uncounted downs, And fields of billowy harvest, and the boom Of mammoth mill wheels turning spire and loom, There still must be The torturing memory of a crime that tore Our heart-strings, and the ghost of liberty Shall dim our very noondays evermore ! Can we forget ? Not till the monstrous debt Be amply paid ; thy credit side of wrong Looms up with large figures and to-day we know, Despot, that thou art strong ; But who shall gauge the morrow ? God makes firm The feeble knees, exalts the heads that bow In dust and ashes. Tyranny hath its term, Sin its avenger ; and there yet may rise THE PEIZE POEM. 25 From what are now but possibilities Shut in the heart of dim futurities Nigh to the throne of God, thy judgment day ! When all the innocent blood so madly shed Shall pour a torrent on thy cowering head ; When the bright Southern Cross, Emerging from the storms of grief and loss, .Shall win the ascendant, and each martyr name In her lost cause a separate star shall flame Round that grand constellation Which speaks in eloquence of light to all I Light that concentrates its ineffable glory Into dread language, such as that which rolled Across the awed Patmean waste of old, When from the highest heaven the archangel s lips Opened, and through the thunder and eclipse Of suns and worlds, the future s wondrous story Burst on the seer in vast Apocalypse : " 0, hearken unto this, Ye prostrate peoples, though the righteous fall, And heirs of promise lie in gory dust, Uplift your blinded eyes, your faltering trust ; In heaven s good time, That which ye deemed was lost is surely found. Spring-blooms of freedom sprout from barren ground j And though full fathom deep on turbulent sea, Or on the mountain lea, Ye lay what seems a corse, a buried nation, In God s good time The mighty Lazarus stirs, he snaps the bands And springs sublime, Heaven s freshening air 2 26 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Thrilling the very rootlets of his hair With a new sense of strength and life and power ; Born in one magical hour, Boused "by God s breath of Palingenesis I" SOUTHEEN OPINION. PASCAGOULA, in thy water, Girlish feet were wont to lave, And the dark-eyed Indian daughter Dipped her tresses in the wave, Drinking the delicious pleasure which thine icy bosom gave; In the moonlight Pascagoula Lifts its waves of silver sheen, Never yet a spot was cooler Than those verdant banks, I ween, And its name of Indian music hath in many a legend been. Years ago a nation founded On this bay a fortress high, While these Southern woods resounded To the deer that flitted by, And the startling voice of hunters swelling loud the red men s cry. Their quick footsteps, light, elastic, Scarcely stirred the gorgeous plume, PASCAGOULA. 27 Ye might see those bands fantastic Which the watch-fires did illume, Sitting down around the camp-light in their picturesque- costume. They had long been chased and taunted, And their women drank the woe ; Their green hunting grounds were haunted, Haunted b j a reckless foe And with bleeding hearts they wandered far from their bright river s flow. Bat at last the Indian mother, On sweet Pascagoula s strand, Found her rest, and learned to smother Memories of the cruel band, Though her high-toned heart was bursting bursting; for her native land. Scarcely had the forest wooed them To a huntsman s joys once more, When the dreaded foe pursued them, Wilder, fiercer than before, Scattering far their deadly arrows, valley, field and mountain o er. In the fort Biloxi s, fated, Eescue from their fury hath, And they hear the foeman hated, Shouting loud in deathless wrath, Yowing from their hearts of bloodshed, vengeance in a brother s path. Long the enemy s siege had lasted, Haunted, jeered on every side ; OF THE UNIVERSITY 28 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH, Many a weary hour they fasted, (Choosing in their savage pride .Famine sooner far than pardon yielded by a soul blood- dyed.) Worn with hunger, weak and fainting, Scorning still their arms to yield, They arose their dark skins painting, As they would for battle field, ^Eobed in plumes and gaudy fringes, armed with bow and axe and shield. Gathering all their men and maidens, Silently the fort they left, Silently, but sorrow laden, Of their hunting fields bereft, Dying of the pangs of hunger tentless by the foeman s theft ; It was midnight in the distance In the west the soft moon s smile, Heightened by a star s assistance, Lighted up the forest aisle, Down the long and moon-lit vista wound the men in In dian file. On they marched, their war plumes shaking, In the fitful midnight breeze, Greeted by the mournful breaking, Of the sad waves of the seas, Or the sound of summer sighing through the long- boughed forest trees ; On they marched into the water, Dark, cool water of the bay, PASCAGOULA. 29 Warrior young and Indian daughter, "Women, chieftains, veterans grey, Turning round or shrinking never from the dashing of the spray. Down, far down the stream they drifted, In. their rich and wild attire, And their women s dark hair lifted, By the white waves stronger, higher, While they chaunted mournful music, mingling grieif with mournful ire ; On. the banks the savage yelling Of their fierce pursuers rose, But triumphant waves were swelling, Yainly did they lift their bows, And Biloxi s fated nation turned and scoffed upon their foes. In the waves they sank deriding Vengeance in their grand despair, And their plaint was heard subsiding "With the low tones of the air, And the murmuring of the waters dashing through their chief s bright hair ; Still is heard that lamentation, In the mystic sounds that rise Nightly from a buried nation Who could thus a foe surprise ; "While as spirits still they linger Where their sun of glory set, Ohieftain dark, and maiden singer, chanting forth a r~ quiem yet SOUTHERN OPINION. 30 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. L. BTJKKOUGHS, OF SAVANNAH, GA. THEY are ringing Peace on my weary ear, No Peace to this heavy heart, They are ringing Peace, I hear ! I hear ! Oh ! God ! how my hopes depart. They are ringing Peace from the mountain side, With a hollow sound it comes ; They are ringing Peace o er the swelling tide, While the billows sweep our homes. They are ringing Peace, and the spring- tide blooms Like a garden fresh and fair, But our martyrs sleep in their silent tombs, Do they hear ! God ! do they hear ? They are ringing Peace, and the battle cry, And the bayonet s work are done, And the armor bright they are laying by, From the brave sire to the son. And the musket s clang, and the soldier s drill, And the tattoo s nightly sound, We shall hear no more with a joyous thrill, Peace, Peace, they are ringing around. There are women still as the stifled air On the burning desert s track, PEACE. 31 Not a cry of joy, not a welcome cheer, And their brave sons coming back. There are fair young heads in their morning pride, Like the lilies pale they bow, Just a memory left to the soldier s bride, God help, God help them now ! There are martial steps that we may not hear, There are forms that we may not see, Death s muster-roll they have answered clear, They axe free thank God, some are free 1 Not a fetter fast, not a prisoner s chain For the noble army gone, No conqueror comes in the heavenly plain, Peace, Peace to the dead alone ! They are ringing Peace, but strangers tread O er the land where our fathers trod, And our birthright joys like a dream are fled, And Thou, where art Thou, oh God 1 They are ringing Peace. Not here, not here, Where the victor s march is set, Roll back to the North its mocking cheer, No Peace to the Southland yet. April, 1865. 32 THE SOUTHERN AMAKANTH. BY M. E. H. IN the grassy lane, as the sun went down, He slackened his fevered and weary feet, Behind, lay the ruined and battered town, Before him the country, deserted yet sweet ! Before him, too, loomed the sunset sky, Where the lurid clouds blazed brilliantly. There were woodlands, green uplands, and rolling hills, Fairy -like stretches of lan(J and mist, Labyrinths of thickets, and silent rills, That threaded the meadows like amethyst ; A valley barren of aught but trees, "Whose pennons of branches swung wild in the breeze. Like one a-dreaming, with face downcast, He stood, unheeding the fading day, Till darkness surrounding, awoke him at last, When clutching his musket, he strode away, First right then left, till he crossed the wood, Close girding the valley s solitude. No chirp of cricket, no twitter of birds, Woke here the dread quiet that gathered around, No laughter, no welcome to home-driven herds, No home s happy mirth in the silence profound Only his step crushed the withered grass, Only his voice moaned a helpless " Alas I HOME AFTEK THE WAE. 33 As his glance searched wildly that old, old scene, His sorrowful face blanched a paler hue, No trace where loved household fires had been, No vestige of home in that dusky view ; Only charred timbers, and ridges of stone, And chimneys dismantled and overthrown. Bank grasses waved in the roofless space, And dark moss crested each fallen wall, And he turned away with a rigid face, For desolation enshrouded all ; Such ruin he little had thought to see, And his heart surged o er with its misery. " I fain would linger," he gloomily said, " But home is no longer home for me ; Here bats go circling about my head, And the owl is monarch of all I can see. No wife s ear to heed my returning feet, No children to sate me with kisses sweet. 1 If I could, I would blot from my heart those years That have flown since last on this spot I stood ; Those terrible years of anguish- wrung tears, And battle-fields streaming with human blood, Where I and legions have recklessly fought, For the country our forefathers lives had bought " Armed numbers have conquered, while I have lost Ev ry dear heart-blossom that brightened my life, 34 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And all that is left me is memory, crost With broken visions of home and strife. Home ? No more home for the soldier s head, Save the final one shelt ring his slumbering dead 1" BAXTIMCKE. BY CATHERINE A. WAEFIELD. You can never win them back ; Never, never; Tho they perish on the track Of your endeavor : Tho their corses strew the earth That smiled upon their birth, And tho blood pollute each hearth, Stone forever ! They have risen to a man Stern and fearless. Of your curses and your ban They are careless. Every hand is on its knife ; Every gun is primed for strife ; Every palm contains a life High and peerless I You have no such blood is theirs, For the shedding: SOUTHERN CHANT OF DEFIANCE. 35 In the vein of cavaliers Was its heading. You have no such stately men In your abolition den, Marching on through foe and fen, Nothing dreading ! They may fall beneath the fire Of your legions, Paid with gold for murderous hire Bought allegiance ; But for every drop you shed, You shall have a mound of dead, So that vultures may be fed In all your regions. But the battle to the strong Is not given, While the Judge of right and wrong Sits in Heaven ! And the God of David still Ouides the pebble with his wilL There are giants yet to kill Wrongs unshriven 1 86 THE SOUTHEEN AMARANTH. BY VIRGINIA MADISON. (MISS S. A. BKOCK, OF VIRGINIA.) ALONG- the city s frowning ramparts all was still ! No sound arose to check the watchful sentry s tread ; The picket s gun across his shoulder laid the shrill Whistle of the deadly bullet shrieked not o er his head. No drum s long-roll the wakeful watchman stirred ; Nor all around were scenes or sounds of battle ; Above him in the air the little chirping bird His matin carol sang ; instead of musket s warring rattle. It was a soft and balmy, cheerful April morn, The hum of business all was hushed and quiet ; The breezes played like whispers newly born, With thousand perfumes, wafting odorous riot. Above the ancient edifice that crowns the city s height, There floated free, the snow-white, star-crossed banner of our cause; The glist ning oriflamme, that like a ray of light Led us in victory s path, with never a thought to pause. * April 2d and 3d, 1865. THE FALL OF RICHMOND. 37 In hoc signo vinces ! It was the charmed cry That rested in that proud labarum of our love ; The talisman in letters bright upon our Southern sky : Twas written on each trusting heart, as though in fire above ! .]S"o sound was heard the holy Sabbath calm to mar, Save gushing, gurgling waters, laughing, sporting wild; As o er their rocky, willowy bed they tumbled, and afar All plashing, foaming, frothing, played wanton as a child Anon, the sacred church bells pealed their matin call, And thousands footsteps wended then their way s To fanes, in which the great " I AM " the mighty Lord of all, Bids those that love him oft to come and pray. U( The Lord is in his Holy Temple," said the lowly voice Of pious priests " Let all the earth before him silence keep ; Let grateful, happy hearts before his throne rejoice, And hearts for sin contrite, bow low, and weep." And then arose confession clean of crime, And prayer our Lord and Master taught while here on earth, And then the psalm, in solemn chaunt sublime The Creed, the Litany the cheerful hymn in mu sic s praiseful mirth. And with the " Book of Books " before them reverent spread, 38 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. With trembling earnestness, the men within the altars sought, In pastures green the footsteps of their flocks to lewi, And all, inspired with heavenly love, and gracious- wisdom, taught. And one there was, with bowed head, and temples grey with care, Who listened meekly to the words that fell like sooth ing balm, And while he listened, fervently sent up a prayer r That Christ his errors would forgive, and grant him* holy calm. For on his shoulders bent, a nation s load was placed, And furrows deep, his rounder cheek had plowed ; Across his massive brow broad lines of pain we^ traced, And his lithe form from thought, and not with age? was bowed. E en as he listened, and his prayers arose Like incense sweet before his Maker s sight, And those were upward borne, who, to his great heart, close So long were pressed, that God would shield them by his might Along the temple s stilly aisle a messenger appeared, With tidings for the man round whom our burdens-* centred ; And as the missive s seal he broke, his fingers shook, as; though he heard The peal of Doom, or ghostly Fate had in the ten> pie entered! UNIVEBSITTY THE FALL OF KICHMOND. 39 No word, or other sign gave he, of all his great heart felt With eyes as calm, and clear with step as stately, went he forth, As when before the altar he had meekly knelt, And there had placed his cares, with all their weight and worth. And quicker than the lightning s flash, then through the crowd there ran, A whisper ominous of the woe, that on them was to break ; And friend looked in the face of friend, and man on man, For light, for help, that hope might not their hearts forsake. But blank dismay, and terror sat on every face, And hearts beat hard, in mighty awe and dread . And grand confusion reigned within that holy place, That echoed wildly with fleet footsteps busy tread. Again the bells pealed forth ! yet not their Sabbath call, But notes of horror ! Ah ! in fearful clashing, As though the shrieks of Fate exulted o er our fall, And madly laughed, as to the earth our cup of hope was dashing. And on the thronged streets, where morning s Sabbath calm, Brooded like wings of Peace, o er angels shoulders folded, " Confusion worse confounded" bore high the victor s palm, Portraying scenes of woe in horrid prescience moulded. 40 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And evening came ; but not with, hope returned, But dim forebodings mingled with despair ; While Ruin s wings unfurled, and eyes that glared and burned, Shot vengeful, like red meteors, through the murky air. And myriad footsteps pressed with clanging tread, And hurried rushing wildly to and fro ; And faces paled, as though the heart were dead, And bounding pulses ceased to ebb and flow. And sudden partings then there were, and " choking sighs ;" " Such as on earth, may be repeated never !" Ah ! who could guess if morning s light again should rise, Since upon morn "so sweet," such awful night could hover. Ah ! who can paint the scenes on which alone Rested the eyes of Him, who looketh on the heart ; Who saw the dear domestic idols on war s altar laid, so prone ; And heard the prayers that rose from souls thus rudely doomed to part. Nor tongue, nor pen, nor yet the fancy can portray The deep heart- wretchedness the courage faith With which we knelt before God s throne to pray, And buckled on fresh sandals for our bloody path. And midnight came ; when from afar we heard The echoing shriek that told of friends departed ; THE FALL OF RICHMOND. 41 And then our hearts grew still, as though some rav nous bird That boded doom, had in that shriek upstarted. Great God ! e en now, as these rude lines I trace, Comes recollection back like vampire stealing My heart s warm blood ! Can time or age efface What mem ry now holds up, in such minute reveal ing? The night grew on apace, in prayers, not tears, For blessed tears come not to eyes in misery burning ; ."No gentle dew but sighs that rent, and direful fears, As back upon our hearts, our spirit s eyes were turn ing. And morning neared ; and then a crash more loud Than thousand thunders all compressed in one. Shook the resounding hills ; and Death to Ruin bowed ; And mocking, laughed, to see her direful work begun. As the faint streaks of dawn above the East rose high. And the red rays of sunlight flushed the mountains far, And shed a roseate sheen upon the river nigh, And paled the silvery light of morning s virgin star. Above, a dark and sullen, murky cloud, it shone, That breathed a sulphurous vapor like the realms of woe; Destruction s veil ! and breaking through the tone Of Ruin s wild ha ! ha s ! Hope s most relentless foe. 42 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And soon fierce tongues of flame, in fury sporting wild. Shot up like hellish demons high in morning air ; And in fantastic vengeance leaped, Destruction s favor ite child ; Alike unheeding anguish, sighs and pra} r er. Anon was heard an old, familiar strain, That had been wont to waken pleasure s rapturous thrill ; The patriot s smile, but now alas ! twere vain As charmer s voice to adder deaf and stilL It told a story born of astreate flag, When Freedom flung her banner to the breeze ; But now, o er every height, through every dell and , crag, The notes of Freedom s death were wailing through the trees. And as that gaudy ensign flaunted vainly out, Each stripe seemed but a gash, encrimsoned with life s gore, Drawn from our Heeding hearts by tyrant s fearful knout ; Each star a Hazing Irand that scorched our being s core. Ah! we had loved it once that starred and striped flag- Our idol it had been our talisman of light ; But now, alas ! alas ! the emblem dire to drag Fair Freedom s form to slavish, cowering night THE FALL OF RICHMOND. 45 And multitudes there were, of strange and unknown- forms, From almost every clime that claims the air of Heaven ; Exultant? No ! But awed before the storms Of war, that crashed like Alpine heights when riveiL When noontide came, a winding sheet of fire Enwrapped the city in its crimson shroud ; And eddying sheets of sparks flashed up in dreadful ire,, While Kuin s howl of triumph echoed loud ! Above it all, through clouds of sulphurous woe, The sun rolled like an orb of blood, all vengeful in. mid-air ; Ah, righteous Heaven ! and twill be even so, When God shall blast this sphere, which now smiles bright and fair. Ah ! man was powerless before the awful sight, For all the air around was but of fire the breath ; And hearts with vengeance filled, grew cold, in sheer affright, Before the dizzy, hideous, howling dance of Death I Its music was the crash of bursting shell, The roar of flames and shrieks of wild despair ; Oh, God ! were scenes more terrible, when fell The demon angels from their place in Heaven so fair? The day wore on ; and as the sun was near its setting, The rushing stream near by, was with a crackling murmur blent ; 44 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. As if Destruction, Famine saw, and further work for getting, Sated, sang to herself a song of sweet content. And evening came ; and o er the pall of smoke That draped like funeral crape, the desolate ramparts far; 41 Wight drew her sable mantle," (and over hearts, that broke In anguish none can paint,) " and pinned it with a star r And as it mates came out, and one by one Pierced through the murky veil, like diamond flashes, They paler grew, as saw they, where they shone, But crumbling walls, and smouldering heaps of ashes ! The gentle moon looked sorrowful and trist, And round her drew a circling bow of tears ; And hid her radiant face behind the cloudy mist, As mourning weepers veil their sighs, and throbs and prayers. And am I done ? and is my story told ? Told quite, in all its varied, saddened phases Of hopes that rose as Titans rose of old, To war with Fate and powers in highest places ? Hopes, that sprang agile as Minerva armed, From head of Jove, to wrestle fierce with might ; Hopes, that each trusting, valiant bosom warmed As heart breathed unto heart, the magic watchword- " Eight!" THE FALL OF RICHMOND. 45 As draws the night its curtain o er the world, As stars that fade before the sunlight s shimmer, Our hopes were paling as our banner there we furled, And scarce remained of all their light, a flickering glimmer. Beneath that city s blackened, crumbling walls, A nation s hopes lie crushed, to be exhumed never (?) As falls the stars from Heaven when Freedom falls, The light of Hope dies out dies out, alas ! forever ! And now I sit and mournful sing the song, Whose heart refrain is, " Shall we e er be free?" Shall Phoenix-like those hopes from ashes spring ere long? Or Eachel mourn bereft for aye a nation s Niobe ? NEW YORK, MAKCH 18, 1867. BY VIBGINIA MADISON. (MISS S. A. BBOCK.) from the rocky heights it comes, Of the old Blue Ridge ! Where it springs from the earth in a crystal lake, O er which the lights and shadows break In a sportive glimmer ; For the sun pours over its dazzling sheen, Through a tangled mass of evergreen And the moonlight s shimmer Is pale and tender ; And in midnight splendor The stars look down from the arching skies, "With a courting smile in their cheery eyes, As the night-bird sings, And folds his wings In the sturdy oak that towers above, Sheltering the treelets with his love His arms enclasped with the towering pine, And lifting high the tendriled vine ; While granite boulders stand around, In silence grim, in awe profound, Unbroken, save by the birds, and the stream * The name given by the early settlers to James Biver. THE STOKY OF THE POWHATAN. 47 Which breaks through, the rocks like a silvery gleam, And, as on it rushes In music gushes, And merrily roams A single stone might bridge. But onward it wends its busy way, And kissed by the flowers that margin its banks, In murmurous glee it gurgles its thanks ; While the playful air A-wandering there, On its saucy wings catches their fragrant breath, As it lovingly steals from its velvety sheath, And freighted with odors coquettishly plays Like a wanton child in the sun s bright rays ; And laughingly sports o er the little stream That flashes along like the lightning s gleam In its beauteous course, until Others commingle : yet still It pauses never, For now a river This streamlet has grown, And its musical tone Is deeper and louder, And stronger and prouder, As it ripples and breaks, gainst the boulders grey . And the giant sycamore rears its head O er fragile willows, that bending spread Their feathery boughs on the river s breast, That a kiss returns ; but never at rest. It rolls along in a mightier flow, Broader, and deeper, and still and slow Like muffled thunders, deep and low, 48 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH, In the brooding storm its waters go, That no longer a stone may bridge I Once, on its banks the red man trod r And worshipped untutored his heathen God. The smoke of his wigwam mid the trees Was lifted and sported by every breeze ; While in and out the tim rous deer, And the panther fierce, and the hungry bear From the stream would slake their thirst, When a cry exultant would oft-times burst A savage yell Through brake and dell, Was the voice that wakened the echoes around And throbbed on the air with a mocking sound. When o er his shoulders he strapped his quiver, And his birch canoe, launched on the river, Onward would float o er the glassy stream, Like his arrow s flight, or the fire-fly s gleam ; Not dreaming of dangers, Or the coming of strangers, Or with naught to disturb his fancies wild, This happy, free-born forest child Wended his way through the gloom profound Of his vast and lordly hunting-ground ; Or dreamily glided over the stream, By the faithful light of the North star s beam, To where was the home of the Indian maid Round whom his loving fancy played, As he hunted the deer or fished in the river : For in the breast of man there dwelleth ever, Whether in savage or in sage, In every clime, in every age, A trouble sweet, a torturing thrill, THE STORY OF THE POWHATAN. 49 A honey d poison, that mocks the will A holy impulse, the spirit to move This heavenly, rapturous torment, is LOVE ! But by and by, the pale-face came To build a home, to rear a fame. He smoked the red man s " pipe of peace," But his treach rous heart was ill at ease ; He envied the grand and wide domain, Of this hardy child of forest and plain ; E ven while the smoke curled round the calumet s bowl, In the hidden depths of his secret soul Dark, evil designs were festering there, On his lips was a smile in his heart was a WAR ! And the lingering echoes of stream and wood Were waked by the savage cry of BLOOD ! The white was weak, the red man strong, Nor would the struggle have lasted long, Had not, when the war-club poised high, Decreed by the chief, his foe must die, Had not, in gentle woman s breast, That mercy which there delights to rest A shield spread o er, in a child s pure form, To shelter the captive from the storm Of hatred that tore the savage s heart, And burned in his breast like the lightning s dart : With a pitying tear in her tender eye, And a hand to her father uplifted high The war-club dropped from his nerveless grasp, And the loving maiden bent to clasp The form of her father s hated foe, 50 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Uplifted his head and bade him go : But turning to Old Virginia lays, We ll list what the song of another says : " Sjie comes like the fawn of the forest, "With a bearing mild and meek, The blood of a line of chieftains Eich in her golden cheek. " With a crown of nodding features, Set round with glimmering pearls ; And the light of the dreamy sunshine Asleep in her raven curls. " Our own. dear Pocahontas, The virgin-queen of the West With the heart of a Christian hero In a timid maiden s breast. * You have heard the moving story, Of the days of long ago ; How the tender girlish bosom, Shrunk not from the deadly blow ; " How the valiant son of England, In the woodland drear and wild, Was saved from the savage war-club, By the courage of a child. " And now in the light of glory, The noble figures stand ; The founder of Virginia, And the pride of our Southern land" THE STORY OF THE POWHATAN. 51 A crumbling tower now marks the spot, Dismantled of ivy, twould perchance be forgot, In the silence that reigns unbroken around, Too sacred and deep for the world s busy round Did not History o er it her bright mantle fling, In a drapery of love, and enchantingly sing Where the young Indian queen, her trusting heart gave, "With her hand, and her life, to the Englishman brave ! A monument grand of the days long gone by, And we gaze on the ruin, with a sweet, tender sigh. Time sped along ! . . . . The pale-face grew The red men weak their numbers few. Their forests were felled, their wigwams gone The Indian sad, despised, forlorn, Backward and backward was cruelly press t Eor hunting-grounds, to the far, far West ! With never a place for the soles of his feet, His race has been mournful, and weary and fl eet ; Ever pursued and ever in motion, He will sink from sight, in the Western ocean. ***** -K * But on the banks of this storied stream, Where the forest had grown, where the sunset s beam Had flushed through the trees, the wigwam, there Rose the planter s home, the mansion fair. Before him outstretched were his fields of grain, And smiling plenty enlivened the plain ; Nature, by Art to softness subdued, Lost only in beauty, her savage mood ; And a nation s seed were planted there, On the beauteous shores of that river fair : 52 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. A nation no greater the world hath known y The foster child of England s throne. Years flew by ! . . . As it gained a name Engraven high on the scroll of Fame, The cruel mother betrayed her child, And dark oppression, stern and wild, In legal form on her head was heaped. "When forth from her scabbard her young sword leaped. And there rang from her lips a startling cry, That proved, than to sheathe it, she chose to die, Twas that darling word to the lips of the free, The talisman shout of " LIBERTY !" Tearful and sad were those gloomy days, Hushed were the notes of joyful lays ; Yet Sorrow with Hope en wreathed her song, While Might with Eight fought fierce and long. Oft Victory seemed in the balance to waver, And stoutest souls in fear to quaver, Till they turned their eyes to One who stood. Untouched, amid the harvest of blood Who, kneeling low, on the virgin sod, In "forma pauper is to God," On his heart bore up a nation s cares, On his lips ascended a nation s prayers. In the calm, pure faith of a soul all shriven, He lifted his trembling hands to Heaven, And catching the glory that circles the tbrone r He led his faithful compatriots on ; No danger dreading, and undismayed, " Victory or death !" flashed in each blade ! And the world looked on in grand surprise To see this new-born star arise THE STORY OF THE POWHATAN. 53 On the Western horizon, and shed its light O er Fame s proud tower and Glory s height, This noble chief- VIRGINIA S son, Our own immortal WASHINGTON ! And the river rushed on in its murmurous flow, And the glad story whisper d, soft and low. It beheld on its banks the oppressor cower, His sword yield up, his standard lower, And twas the first the face to see Of our Heaven-crowned goddess, LIBERTY ! And catching a gleam like stars in the night, It lifted its voice in glorious might. From its rise in the hills to the surging main, Was heard alone the grateful refrain That it vainly imagined was never to cease Twas one sweet word, and that was " PEACE !" " Peace ! Peace !" it sang through the day and the night, And .echo responded in rapturous light, And wafted it over the mountain and plain, Till the vocal air trilled it again and again ; That one- worded anthem of brave hearts and free, Under the Heaven-crowned queen, dear LIBERTY ! And the world beheld cities tower and rise, Lifting their spires to the arching skies ; Sciences flourished, and Arts the while, And all of nature wore a smile ; The curse upon man from our land seem d driven By the watchful, ceaseless care of Heaven ! O halcyon days ! Are ye past and gone Fled like the roseate dreams of morn ? Is happiness then, but a faded myth 54 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH- A vision to lull our souls wherewith ? Is happiness, then, but to mortals given As a foretaste here of the joys of Heaven T A sweet ner of ills that belong to earth, To be snatched away almost at its birth ; Lest the soulless clod we call our home, Should plunge our souls in the fearful doom,. Of the guilty who lift no glance on high To the life of vast Eternity? E en as we dreamed on in our fancied bliss,. And the river gurgled its song of peace ; As we saw on its banks the waving grain r And smiling plenty enliven the plain, Under swarthy hands of the " sons or toil, r Happy in tilling the generous soil, Contented and blessed in their simple mirth "No happier children had mother earth We recked not the cloud that envy had thrown, So small twas at first, but sullenly grown Dark and foreboding, loud thunders it muttered, And sounds of strange vengeance, and hatred it uttered Zig-zag lightnings across it wild played In blinding flashes ; but brave, undismayed, We laughed at the threats of a coming storm, And the blood in our pulses beat healthy and warm ? . For were we not sheltered by the boughs of a tree, Booted and nurtured by LIBERTY? Alas ! . . Our visions were vain and wild, More vain than the summer dreams of a child I. For a crash more loud than the thunder peal,. And lightning more vivid than fire on steel,. Echoed and flashed when that river fair THE STORY OF THE POWHATAN. 55 Was plowed by the keel of the "man-of-war." The cloud that in the horizon had lowered, High to the zenith now had towered, And our fair and beauteous Southern sky- Was hung with a bloody drapery. Full soon the terrible strife began, " Life for a life," and man for man ! "Where late the proud steamer floated o er, And the merchant- ship its argosy bore (Hither and thither) its freight of wealth, Proud proofs of a glorious nation s health ; There lurked along like things of night That hate the day and fear the light, The dire enginery of death, All belching forth a sulphurous breath ; And echo caught up the shriek, the howl, The war-dog s wrathful and sullen growl, The cry of dread, as it rose on high, Through the welkin round, to the far-off sky; Then sank in its tone to a wail of woe. In its pitiful agony, tearful and low, Then died on the ear forever and ever, In the circling waves of the saddened river. Yet, in the strain of this tragic story, Though much of gloom, there is more of glory, For Freedom s struggles on this stream, Gild many a page in the book of Fame ; And down through the coming years of Time, Historic Truth shall make sublime Shall illume its lore in the glittering track On the waters left by the Merrimac : 56 THE SOUTHEEN AMARANTH. Shall set on its brow that radiant gem, Our wonderful " Iron Diadem !" And future ages re-echo the cry That rose from its decks of " Victory !" Shall gird their limbs with the pennon fair, That toyed and played in the soft spring air, While it waved over souls as brave and true, As ever the breath of freedom drew ; As loyal and leal as the knights of old, Whose honor was not to be purchased with gold ; Whose dearest meed was their country s good, Though costing their country s richest blood ; Whose pledge to Freedom was the cry, " With her to live, or for her to die !" And brave and dauntless Buchanan stood, While surged around the fire and flood ; And far over carnage, and din and smoke The prescient eye of his heart awoke To the smile that played o er his chieftain s face, And to its sternness lent a witching grace ; And the grasp of the hand of noble Lee, That noblest son of LIBERTY ! And the wild acclaim of his countrymen dear, Gave nerve to his will, to his heart gave cheer, And Yirginia, the laurels of victory won, Through the gallant skill of Maryland s son ! Along the river s classic banks The bristling cannon now stood in ranks. In morning s light or in evening s gloom, Was heard the wrathful, angry boom ; At midnight deep, the direful crashes Lightened the waters with lurid flashes ; THE STORY OF THE rOWHATAJ?. 57 And radiant noon saw, too, the sight That morn nor eve, nor day, nor night Could stop or stay, for hatred sped them, As brother unto brother led them ! But hearts grew still, and chill the breath, When spoke these messengers of Death ! Years passed on in carnage dire, In blood and woe, in waste and fire. And frighted Plenty fled the land "When Kuin gaunt, stretched forth her Land. And all the glassy stream reflected The monuments that she erected, Por burning dwellings lit the air, And domes and spires of cities near, Upreared their flaming banners high, In fearful mockery to the sky ; While War s wild voice caught up the roar And laughed more wildly than before ; And skeletons all hideous grim Pierced through the war-clouds, dark and dim, And chimneys bare, and blackened walls, A_nd ruined homes, deserted halls, Mirrored themselves within the wave, Which opened wide a gaping grave ! And there, where Liberty had birth, Where first Columbia owned her worth, There ! even there ! Oh Heaven ! save ! She found at last a bloody grave. Yes, there upon Virginia s sands, Tainly outspread her pleading hands. But Tyranny swept her rudely by, And mocked her last imploring cry ; 58 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. His brutal heel, he forced on her neck " Sic Semper Tyrannis !" Behold the wreck, Where his blood-stained chariot wheeled its way O er hearts and homes in his direful sway ! Meekly she folded her hands on her breast, And sank with her children entombed to rest, When Peace from her land fled far in affright, And o er it was drawn the curtain of night 1 Now, now on the breath of every gale, Is borne the notes of a mournful wail. For the sunny South, no longer free, Weeps over the tomb of LIBERTY ! Poor Old Dominion ! . . . 0, wretched mother t Yainly her anguish she struggles to smother, As she sees her daughters before her stand With cypress-crowned brows, and the beauteous lai*i Decked in emblems of woe ! Day and night she weep O er her loving children s untimely sleep. As she drags along in her toils and pains, Alone is heard the clank of her chains ; And prone upon her native sod, She lifts her manacled hands to God ; And there on the wings of her burdened air, Is wafted the breath of her agonized prayer. The poison has entered her inmost soul, Its waves in her veins like fire doth roll ! The torturous links have been press d in her flesh And o er her is thrown the treach rous mesh Of Tyranny s weaving ; yet mute she stands As the lamb in sacrificial hands, Though the pulsing throes of heart-strings quiver THE STOIiY OF THE POWHATAN. 59 Like broken music-chords forever. But a part, thank God ! unfettered remains, Though the poison is cank ring it laughs at the chains,, Thank God for the soul s immortality, That bids it untrammel d " be free ! be free ! " That sees through the cloud of Freedom s eclipse, The sun of a grand apocalypse ! The river rolls on in its mighty flow, Broad and deep, and still and slow. No longer it murmurs the notes of peace, As free and as blithe as the birds or the breeze ; But in its flow, So calm and slow, Is a muffled groan, Is a smother d moan ; On the breath of the gale A tremulous wail ; In the tempest s growl, Is a vengeful howl ; A shriek and a prayer, On the pulsing air ; The sun s bright rays Become a haze Of circling tears ; And boding fears, Pale the rainbow s dyes, As doubts arise Lest the promise given, By the signet in heaven, Is lost in the guilt of guilty man, "When his vent rous footsteps counter ran To the mandates of 60 THE SOUTHERN AMAEANTH. In bringing of blood A crimson flood, To dye the waves Of the watery graves ! The stars look down with a sadder light From the mourning, piteous brow of night, And list the groaning, The shrieks and the moaning, The very heart-swelling, That Darkness is telling ! As the river runs on its ceaseless way, Its waters no longer sportively play No longer cheerily, No longer merrily, But wearily, Drearily, In grief and in woe, They murmuririgly go Onward, and onward, forever in motion, Till their cries are drowned in the bellowing ocean METEOPOLITAN EECOBD. BY PAUL H. HAYNE. [THE infamous crime of McNeil, perpetrated in one of our "Western States, has now met with the shuddering reprobation of Christendom. But at the time the following verses cast, as the reader will perceive, in a partly dramatic mould were composed, ten Confederates had been hastily and ignominiously murdered by order of a Federal commander, on a charge afterwards proven to be false; and that one of the unfortunate victims, (a mere youth, ) voluntarily sacrificed his life to rescue his friend, a man advanced in years and with a large family. In the Poem this latter individual is represented as unaware of the youth s resolve until it has been executed. Between the first and second parts of the piece, about twenty-four hours are supposed to have elapsed.] PARTI. [PLACE A Federal Prison A Confederate chained, and a Visitor, his Friend. J " How says t thou ? die to-morrow ? Oh ! my friend I The bitter, bitter doom ! What hast thou done to tempt this ghastly end This death of shame and gloom ?" " What done ? Do tyrants wait for guilty-deeds, To find or prove a crime They, who have cherished Hatred s fiery seeds : Hot for the harvest-time ? 62 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. " A sneer ! a smile ! vague trifles light as air Some foolish, false surmise Lead to the harrowing drama of despair Wherein the victim dies ! " And I shall perish ! Comrade, heed me not I For thus my tears must start Not for the misery of my blasted lot, But hers who holds my heart ! " And theirs, the flowers that wreathe my humble hearth With roseate blush and bloom. To-morrow eve, they stand alone on earth, Beside their father s tomb ! 41 There s Blanche, my serious beauty, lithe and tall, With pensive eyes and brow There s Kate, the tenderest darling of them all, Whose kisses thrill me now ! There s little Rose, the sunshine of our days A tricky, gladsome sprite How vividly come back her winsome ways, Her laughters, and delight ! And my brave boy my Arthur ! Did his arm Second his will and brain, I should not groan beneath this iron charm, Clasping my chains in vain ! Oh, Christ ! and hath it come to this ? Will none Ward off the ghastly end ? And yet methinks I heard the voice of one Who called the old man Friend I THE SUBSTITUTE. 63 May all the curses caught from deepest hell Light on the blood-stained knave Who laughs to hear the patriot s funeral knell, Blaspheming o er his grave ! Away ! Such dreams are madness ! My pale lips Had best besiege Heaven s ear, But in the turmoil of my mind s eclipse, No thought, no wish is clear. Dear friend, forgive me ! Sorrow, frenzy, ire My bosom s ringing guests By turn have whelmed me in their floods of fire Fierce passions, swift unrests. And now, farewell ! The sentry s warning hand, Taps at my prison bars. We part, but not forever ! There s a land, Comrade, beyond the stars !" 41 Yea !" said the youth, and o er his kindling face A saint-like glory came As if some prescient Angel breathing grace, Had touched it into flame. PAKT II. [PLACE The same Prison. PERSONS Confederate Prisoner, together with McNeil and the Jailer. The hours sink slow to sunset ! Suddenly Eose a deep, gathering hum ; And o er the measured stride of soldiery Boiled out the muffled drum 1 64 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. The prisoner started ! crushed a stifling sigh, Then rose erect and proud ! Scorn s lightning quivering in his stormy eye, Neath the brow s thunder-cloud ! And girding round his limbs and stalwart breast Each iron chain and ring, He stood sublime, imperial, self-possessed And haughty as a KING ! The " dead march " wails without the prison gate Up the calm evening sky ; And ruffian jestings, born of ruffian hate, Make loud, unmeet reply ! The hired bravoes, whose pitiless features pall In front of armed men But whose magnanimous (?) courage will not quail Where none can strike again I The " dead march " wails without the prison wall, Up the calm evening sky : And timed to the dread dirge s rise and fall, Move the fierce murderers by ! They passed ; and wondering at his doom deferred, The Captive s lofty fire Sank in his heart, by torturing memories stirred Of Husband, and of Sire ! But hark ! the clash of bolt and opening door 1 The tramp of hostile heel ! When lo ! upon the darkening prison floor, Glared the false hound McNeil. THE SUBSTITUTE. 65 And next him, like a bandog scenting blood, Boused from his drunken ease, The grimy, low-browed jailer glowering stood, Clanking his iron keys. " Quick ! sirrah ! strike yon rebel s fetters off, And let the old fool see What ransom (with a low and bitter scoff) What ransom sets him free ! " A glorious business 1 By the fiend, I think Bold Butler s put to shame ! I mark his lurid honors pale and sink Before my crimson fame !" As the night traveller in a land of foes The warning instinct feels, That through the treacherous dimness and repose A shrouded Horror steals ! So, at these veiled words, the Captive s soul Shook with a solemn dread And ghostly voices, prophesying dole, Moaned faintly overhead ! His limbs are freed ! his swarthy, scowling guide Leads through the silent town, Where from dim casements black with wrath and pride, Stern eyes gleam darkly down ! They halted where a dense wood showered around Dark leaflets on the sod, And the live air seemed vocal with the sound Of wild appeals to God 1 66 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Heaped, as if common carrion, in the gloom, NINE mangled corpses lay All speechless now but with what tongue of doom Eeserved for Judgment Day ! And near them, but apart, ONE youthful form Pressed a fair upland slope, O er whose white brow a sunbeam nickering warm, Played like a heavenly hope ! There, with the same grand look which yester-night That face at parting wore, The self-made martyr in the sunset light Slept on his couch of gore ! The sunset waned ; the wakening forest waved, Struck by the north wind s moan, While he, whose life this matchless death has saved Knelt by the corse alone ! SOUTHERN ILLUSTRATED NEWS. ADDRESS. 67 DELIVERED BY MR. KEEBLE, AT THE OPENING OF THE NEW THEATRE, RICHMOND, VIRGINIA, FEBRUARY, 1863. A PKIZE POEM. BY HABKT TIMEOD, OF SOUTH CABOUNA. A FAIKY ring Drawn in the crimson of a battle-plain From whose weird circle every loathsome thing And sight and sound of pain Are banished, while about it in the air, And from the ground, and from the low-hung skies, Throng, in a vision fair As ever lit a prophet s dying eyes, Grleams of that unseen world That lies about us rainbow tinted shapes With starry wings unfurled, Poised for a moment on such airy capes As pierce the golden foam Of sunset s silent main, "Would image what in this enchanted dome, Amid the night of War and Death, In which the armed city draws its breath, We have built up ! For though no wizard wand nor magic cup The spell hath wrought, Within this charmed fane we ope the gates Of that divinest Fairyland, Where, under loftier fates 68 THE SQUTHEEN AMARANTH. Than rule the vulgar earth on which we stand, Move the bright creatures of the realm of thought Shut for one happy evening from the flood That roars about us, here you may behold As if a desert way Could blossom and unfold A garden fresh with May Substantialized in breathing flesh and blood, Souls, that upon the poet s page Have lived from age to age, And yet have never donned this mortal clay. A golden strand Shall sometimes spread before you like the isle- Where fair Miranda s smile Met the sweet stranger whom the father s art Had led unto her heart : Which, like a bud that waited for the light, Burst into bloom at sight ! Love shall grow softer in each maiden s eyes As Juliet leans her cheek upon her hand, And prattles to the night. Anon, a reverend form With tattered robe and forehead bare That challenge all the torments of the air Goes by ! And the pent feelings choke in one long sigh r While as the mimic thunder rolls, you hear The noble wreck of Lear Reproach like things of life the ancient skies, And commune with the storm ! Lo ! next a dim and silent chamber, where, Wrapt in glad dreams, in which perchance the Moor ADDKESS. 69 Tells lais strange story o er, The gentle Desdemona chastely lies Unconscious of the loving murderer nigh. Then, through a hush like death, Stalks Denmark s mailed ghost. And Hamlet enters with that thoughtful breath Which is the trumpet of a countless host xQf reasons, but which wakes no deed from sleep ; For while it calls to strife He pauses on the very brink of fact, "To toy with the shadow of au act, And utter those wise saws that cut so deep Into the core of life ! Nor shall be wanting many a scene Where forms of more familiar mien, Moving through lowlier pathways, shall present The world of every day ; Such as it whirls along the busy quay Or sits beneath a rustic orchard wall, Or floats about a fashion -freighted hall, Or toils in attics dark the night away. Xove, hate, grief, joy, gain, glory, shame shall meet As in the round wherein our lives are pent. Chance for a while shall seem to reign, While Goodness roves like Guilt about the street ; And Guilt looks innocent. But all at last shall vindicate the right, Crime shall be meted with its proper pain, Motes shall be taken from the doubter s sight, And Fortune s general justice rendered plain. Of honest laughter, there shall be no dearth, Wit shall shake hands with humor, grave and sweet, 70 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Our wisdom shall not be too wise for mirttr,, Nor kindred follies want a fool to greet. As sometimes from the meanest spot of earth A sudden beauty unexpected starts, So you shall find some germs of hidden worth Within the vilest hearts. And now and then, when in those moods that turn: To the cold Muse that whips a fault with sneers, You shall, perchance, be strangely touched to learni You ve struck a spring of tears ! But while we lead you thus from change to change?,, Shall we not find within our ample range Some type to elevate a people s heart Some hero, who shall teach a -hero s part, In this distracted time ? Eise from thy sleep of ages, noble Tell ! And, with the Alpine thunders of thy voice, As if across the billows unenthralled Thy Alps unto the Alleghanies called, Bid Liberty rejoice 1 Proclaim upon this trans- Atlantic strand The deeds which, more than their own awful miem Make every crag of Switzerland sublime ! And say to those whose feeble souls would lean Not on themselves, but on some outstretched hand,, That once a single mind sufficed to quell The malice of a tyrant ; let them know That each may crowd in every well-aimed blow,, Not the poor strength alone of arm and brand But the whole spirit of a mighty land ! Bid Liberty rejoice ! Aye though its day Be far or near, these clouds shall yet be red THE GUEKILLA. 71 "With the large promise of the coming ray. Meanwhile, With that calm courage which can smile Amid the terrors of the wildest fray, Let us among the charms of Art awhile Fleet the deep gloom away ; Nor yet forget that 011 each hand and head Eest the dear rights, for which we fight and pray. SOUTHEBN ILIAJSTKATED NEWS. ife BY S. TEACKLE WALLIS, BALTEMORJE. AWAKE ! and to horse my brothers, For the dawn is glimmering grey, And hark ! in the crackling brushwood, There are feet that tread this way. "Who cometh? 1 "A friend." " What tidings ?" " Oh God ! I sicken to tell, For the earth seems earth no longer, And its sights are the sights of hell. There s rapine and fire and slaughter, From the mountain down to the shore, There s blood on the trampled harvest, And blood on the homestead floor. From the far off conquered cities, Comes the voice of a stifled wail, And the shrieks and moans of the homeless King like the dirge of a gale. 72 THE SOUTHERN AMAEANTH. I have seen from the smoking village, Our mothers and daughters fly, I ve seen where the little children, Sank down in the furrows to die. On the banks of the battle-stained river, I stood as the moonlight shone, And it glared on the face of my brother, As the sad wave swept him on. Where my home was glad, are ashes, And horror and shame had been there, For I found on the fallen linten, This tress of my wife s torn hair. They are turning the slave upon us, And with more than the fiend s worst art, Have uncovered the fires of the savage, That slept in his untaught heart. The ties to our hearts that bound him, They have rent with curses away, And madden him in their madness, To be almost as brutal as they. With halter and torch and Bible, And hymns to the sound of the drum, They preach the gospel of murder, And pray for lust s kingdom to come. To saddle ! my brothers! to saddle ! Look up to the rising sun, And ask of the God who shines there, Whether deeds like these shall be done. THE GUERILLA. "Whither the vandal cometh, Press home to his heart with your steel ; And where er at his bosom ye cannot, Like the serpent, go strike at his heel. Through thicket and wood go hunt him, Creep up to his camp-fire side, And let ten of his corpses blacken, Where one of our brothers hath died. In his fainting, foot-sore marches, In his flight from the stricken fray, In the snare of the lonely ambush, The debts that we owe him, pay. In God s hands alone is vengeance, But he strikes with the hands of men ; And his blight would wither our manhood, If we smote not the smiter again. By the graves where our fathers slumber, By the shrines where our mothers prayed, By our homes and hopes of freedom, Let every man swear by his blade, That he will not sheathe nor stay it, Till from point to hilt it glow With the flush of Almighty justice, In the blood of the cruel foe." They swore ; and the answering sunlight Leapt from their lifted swords, And the hate in their hearts made echo, To the wrath of their burning words. CHA.TTAKTOOGA EEBEL. 4 73 74 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. A POEM FOE THEN AND NOW. BY JOHN K. THOMPSON, VIHGINIA. WHO talks of coercion ? who dares to deny A resolute people the right to be free ? Let him blot out forever one star from the sky, Or curb with his fetter one wave of the sea ! Who prates of Coercion ? can love be restored To bosoms where only resentment may dwell ? Can peace upon earth be proclaimed by the sword r Or good will among men be established by shell ? Shame ! shame ! that the statesman and trickster for sooth, Should have for a crisis no other resource Beneath the fair day-spring of light and of truth, Than the old brutumfulmen of tyranny, force ! Prom the holes where fraud, falsehood, and hate slink away ; From the crypt in which error lies buried in chains f This foul apparition stalks forth to the day, And would ravage the land which his presence pro fanes. Could you conquer us, Men of the North could you bring Desolation and death on our homes as a flood COERCION. 75 Can yon hope the pure lily, Affection, will spring From ashes all reeking and sodden with blood ? Could you bind us as villeins and serfs know ye not What fierce, sullen hatred lurks under the scar ? How loyal to Hapsburg is Venice, I wot, How dearly the Pole loves his father, the Czar ! But twere well to remember this land of the sun Is a Nutrix leonum, and suckles a race Strong armed, lion-hearted, and banded as one Who brook not oppression and know not disgrace- And well may the schemers in office beware The swift retribution that waits upon crime, When the lion, KESISTAKCE, shall leap from his lair,. With a fury that renders his vengeance sublime. Once, Men of the North, we were brothers, and still, Though brothers no more, we would gladly be friends ; Nor join in a conflict accursed, that must fill With ruin the country on which it descends. But, if smitten with blindness, and mad with the rage- The gods gave to all whom they wished to destroy, You would act a new Iliad, to darken the age With horrors beyond what is told us of Troy If, deaf as the adder itself to the cries, When Wisdom, Humanity, Justice implore, You would have our proud eagle to feed on the eyes Of those who have taught him so grandly to soar If there be to your malice no limit imposed, And you purpose hereafter to rule with the rod,. 76 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. The men upon whom you already have closed Our goodly domain and the temples of God : To the breeze then your banner dishonored unfold. And, at once, let the tocsin be sounded afar ; We greet you, as greeted the Swiss, Charles the Bold With a farewell to peace, and a welcome to war ! For the courage that clings to our soil, ever bright, Shall catch inspiration from turf and from tide ; Our sons unappalled shall go forth to the fight, With the smile of the fair and pure kiss of the bride ; And the bugle its echoes shall send through the past, In the trenches of Yorktown, to waken the slain ; While the sod of Bang s Mountain shall heave at the blast, And give up its heroes to glory again. BY ST. GEORGE TUCKER, VIRGINIA. OH, say, can you see through the gloom and the storm, More bright for the darkness, that pure constellation ? Like the symbol of love and redemption its form, As it points to the haven of hope for the nation. How radiant each star, as the beacon afar, Oiving promise of peace or assurance of war ! "Tis the Cross of the South, which shall ever remain, To light us to freedom and glory again ! THE SOUTHERN CROSS. 77 How peaceful and blest was America s soil Till betrayed by the guile of the Puritan demon, Which lurks under virtue and springs from its coil To fasten its fangs in the life blood of freemen. Then boldly appeal to each heart that can feel, And crush the foul viper neath Liberty s heel ! And the Cross of the South, shall in triumph remain To light us to freedom and glory again ! Tis the emblem of peace, tis the day-star of hope, Like the sacred Labarum that guided the Roman ; From the shore of the Gulf to the Delaware s slope Tis the trust of the free and the terror of foeman. Fling its folds to the air, while we loudly declare The rights we demand or the deeds that we dare ! While the Cross of the South shall in triumph remaic To light us to freedom and glory again ! And if peace should be hopeless and justice denied, And war s bloody vulture should flap its black pinions, Then gladly to arms 1 while we hurl, in our pride, Defiance to tyrants and death to their minions. With our front to the field, swearing never to yield, Or return, like the Spartans, in death on our shield ! And the Cross of the South shall triumphantly wave As the flag of the free, or the pall of the brave. 78 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY MAUEICE 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 the 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 a 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 with some of * the men. WOMAN S WAIL MISSION. 79 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 /" FOLD away all your bright tinted dresses, Turn the key on your jewels to-day, And the wealth of your tendril like tresses Braid back, in a serious way : .No more delicate gloves no more laces, No more trifling in boudoir and bower ; But come with your souls in your faces To meet the stern needs of the hour ! Look around ! By the torchlight unsteady, The dead and the dying seem one. 80 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. What ! paling and trembling already, Before your dear mission s begun ? These wounds are more precious than ghastly ; Fame presses her lips to each scar, As she chaunts of a glory which vastly Transcends all the horrors of war. Pause here by this bedside how mellow The light showers down on that brow ! Such a brave, brawny visage ! Poor fellow ! Some homestead is missing him now. Some wife shades her eyes in the clearing, Some mother sits moaning, distressed While the loved one lies faint, but unfearing. With the enemy s ball in his breast Here s another ; a lad a mere stripling Picked up from the field, almost dead ; With the blood through his sunny hair rippling From a horrible gash in the head. They say he was first in the action, Gray-hearted, quick-handed, and witty ; He fought till he fell with exhaustion, At the gates of our fair Southern city. Fought and fell neath the guns of that city, With a spirit transcending his years. Lift him up in your large-hearted pity And touch his pale lips with your tears. Touch him gently most sacred the duty Of dressing that poor shattered hand 1 God spare him to rise in his beauty, And battle once more for the land I WOMAN S WAR MISSION. 81 Who groaned ? What a passionate murmur " In thy mercy God I let me die /" Ha ! surgeon, your hand must be firmer, That grapeshot has shattered his thigh. Fling the light on those poor, furrowed features \ Grey haired and unknown, bless the brother I God ! that one of Thy creatures Should e er work such woe on another I Wipe the sweat from his brow with your kerchief f Let the stained, tattered collar go wide. See ! he stretches out blindly to search if The surgeon still stands at his side. " My son s over yonder ! he s wounded Oh I this ball that has broken my thigh /" And again he burst out, all a-tremble, " In thy mercy, O God ! let me die I" Pass on ! It is useless to linger While others are claiming your care ^ There is need of your delicate finger, For your womanly sympathy, there ! There are sick ones athirst for caressing There are dying ones raving of home There are wounds to be bound with a blessing And shrouds to make ready for some. They have gathered about you the harvest Of death, in its ghastliest view ; The nearest as well as the farthest Is here with the traitor and true I And crowned with your beautiful patience, Made sunny with love at the heart, You must balsam the wounds of a nation, Nor falter, nor shrink from your part I 82 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Up and down through the wards, where the fever Stalks noisome, and gaunt and impure, You must go with your steadfast endeavor To comfort, to counsel, to cure ! I grant that the task s superhuman, But strength will be given to you To do for those dear ones what woman Alone, in her pity can do. And the lips of the mothers will bless you As angels sweet visaged and pale ! And the little ones run to caress you, While the wives and the sisters cry " Hail !" But e en if you drop down unheeded, "What matter ? Grod s ways are the best ; You ve poured out your life where twas needed, And He will take care of the rest ! CHAELESTON COURIER. BY JAMES E. RANDALL. ABM yourselves and be valiant men, and see that ye be in readiness against the morning, that ye may fight with these nations that assembled against us, to destroy us and our sanctuary. For it is better for us to die in battle than to behold the calamities of our people and our sanctuary. MACCABEES i. BROTHER ! the thunder cloud is black, And the wail of the South rings forth ; BATTLE CRY OF THE SOUTH. 83 "Will ye cringe to the hot tornado s rack, And the vampires of the North ? Strike ! ye can win a martyr s goal, Strike ! with a ruthless hand Strike ! with the vengeance of the soul, For your bright beleaguered land ! To arms ! to arms ! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees For ye have the sword of the Lion s Whelp * And the God of the Maccabees ! Arise ! though the stars have a rugged glare, And the moon has a wrath-blurred crown Brothers ! a blessing is ambushed there In the cliffs of the Father s frown ; Arise ! ye are worthy the wondrous light Which the Sun of Justice gives In the cares and sepulchres of night Jehovah the Lord King lives ! To arms ! to arms ! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees For ye have the sword of the Lion s Whelp And the God of the Maccabees ! Think of the dead by the Tennessee, In their frozen shrouds of gore Think of the mothers who shall see Those darling eyes no more ! But better are they in a hero grave Than the serfs of time and breath, For they are the children of the brave, And the cherubim of death ! * The surname of the great Maccabees. 84 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. To arms ! to arms ! for the South needs help r And a craven is he who flees For ye have the sword of the Lion s Whelp And the God of the Maccabees Better the charnels of the West, And a hecatomb of lives, Than the foul invader as a guest Mid your sisters and your wives But a spirit lurketh in every maid, Though, brothers, ye should quail, To sharpen a Judith s lurid blade, And the livid spike of Jael ! To arms ! to arms ! for the South needs help,. And a craven is he who flees For ye have the sword of the Lion s Whelp And the God of the Maccabees ! Brothers ! I see you tramping by, With the gladiator gaze, And your shout is the Macedonian cry Of the old heroic days ! March on ! with trumpet and with drum, With rifle, pike, and dart, And die if even death must come Upon your country s heart ! To arms ! to arms ! for the South needs help,, And a craven is he who flees For ye have the sword of the Lion s Whelp And the God of the Maccabees ! Brothers ! the thunder-cloud is black, And the wail of the South wings forth ; OUE FAITH IN SIXTY-ONE. 85 Will ye cringe to the hot tornado s rack And the vampires of the North ? :Strike I ye can win a -martyr s goal, Strike ! with a ruthless hand . Strike ! with the vengeance of the soul For your bright beleaguered land ! To arms ! to arms ! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees For ye have the sword of the Lion s Whelp And the God of the Maccabees ! BY A. J. KEQUIEB, ALABAMA. " THAT governments are instituted among men, deriving the just ^powers from the consent of the governed : that whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it, and to institute a new government, laying its foundation on such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety c:and happiness." DECLARATION or INDEPENDENCE, JULY 4th, 1776. NOT yet one hundred years have flown, Since on this very spot, The subjects of a sovereign throne Liege masters of their lot This high decree spread o er the sea, From council-bcard and tent, 86 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH* " No earthly power can rule the free But by their own consent !" For this they fought as Saxons fight, On bloody fields and long Themselves, the champions of the ri And judges of the wrong ; For this their stainless knightood wore The branded rebel s name, Until the starry cross they bore, Set all the skies aflame ! And States coequal and distinct Outshone the western sun, By one great charter interlinked Not blended into one ; Whose graven key that high decree. The grand inscription lent, " No earthly power can rule the free,. But by their own consent !" Oh, sordid age ! Oh, ruthless rage I Oh, sacrilegious wrong ! A deed to blast the record page, And snap the strings of song ; In that great charter s name, a band By grovelling greed enticed, Whose warrant is a grasping hand Of deeds without a Christ States that have trampled every pledge Its crystal code contains, Now give their swords a keener edge,, OUK FAITH IN SIXTY-ONE. 87 To harness it with, chains To make a bond of brotherhood The sanction and the seal, By which to arm a rabble brood With fratricidal steel. "Who conscious that their cause is black, In puling prose and rhyme, Talk hatefully of love, and tack Hypocrisy to crime ; Who smile and smite, engross the gorge Or impotently frown ; And call us " rebels " with King George, As if they wore his crown ! Most venal of a venal race, Who think you cheat the sky With every pharisaic face And simulated lie ; Bound Freedom s lair, with weapons bare, We greet the light divine Of those who throned the Goddess there And yet inspire the shrine ! Our loved one s graves are at our feet, Their homesteads at our back No belted Southron can retreat With women on his track ; Peal, bannered host, the proud decree Which from our fathers went, [ " No earthly power can rule the free ! But by their own consent 1" THE SOUTHEKN AMARANTH. BY JOHN W. OVEKALL, LOUISIANA. YE spirits of the glorious dead ! Ye watchers of the sky ! Who sought the patriot s crimson bed, With holy trust and high. Come, lend your inspiration now, Come fire each Southern son, Who nobly fights for freemen s rights, And shouts for sixty-one. Come teach them how, on hill and glade, Quick leaping from your side, The lightning flash of sabres made A red and flowing tide. How well ye fought, how bravely fell, Beneath our burning sun ; And let the lyre in strains of fire, So speak of sixty-one. There s many a grave in all the land, And many a crucifix, Which tells how that heroic band, Stood firm in seventy-six. Ye heroes of the deathless past, Your glorious race is run, But from your dust springs freedom s trust, And blows for sixty-one. A BALLAD F Jll THE YOUNG SOUTH. 89 We build our altars where you lie, On many a verdant sod, "With sabres pointing to the sky, And sanctified to God. The smoke shall rise from every pile, Till freedom s cause is won, And every mouth throughout the South Shall shout for sixty-one ! BY JOSEPH BRENNAN, NEW ORLEANS. I. MEN of the South ! Our foes are up In fierce and grim array ; Their sable banner laps the air An insult to the day ! The saints of Cromwell rise again, In sanctimonious hordes, Hiding behind the garb of peace A million ruthless swords. From North, and East, and West, they seek The same disastrous goal, With CHRIST upon the lying lip, And Satan in the soul ! Mocking, with ancient shibboleth, All wise and just restraints : 90 THE SOUTHEEN AMARANTH. " To saints of Heaven was empire given, And WE, alone, are saints /" II. A preacher to the pulpit comes And calls upon the crowd, For Southern creeds and Southern hopes To weave a bloody shroud. Beside the prayer-book, on his desk, The bullet-mould is seen ; And near the Bible s golden clasp, The dagger s stately sheen ; The simple tale of Bethlehem No more is fondly told, For every priestly surplice drags Too heavily with gold ; The blessed Cross of Calvary Becomes a sign of Baal, Like that which played when chieftains raised The clansmen of the Gael ! in. Hark to the howling demagogues A fierce and ravenous pack With nostrils prone, and bark and bay, That close upon our track : " Down with the laws our fathers made ! They bind our hearts no more ; Down with the stately edifice, Cemented with their gore ! Forget the legends of our race Efface each wise decree A BALLAD FOR THE YOUNG SOUTH. 91 Americans must kneel as slaves, Till Africans are free ! Out on the mere Caucasian blood Of Teuton, Celt, or Gaul ! The stream that springs from Niger s source Must triumph over all !" IV. So speaks a solemn senator Within those halls to-day, That echoed, erst, the thunder-burst Of WEBSTER and of CLAY ! Look North, look East, look West the scene Is blackening all around ; The negro cordon, year by year, Is fast and faster bound ; The black line crossed the sable flag Surrounded by a host Our outpost forced, our sentinels Asleep upon their post ; Our brethren s life-blood flowing free, To stain the Kansas soil And shed in vain, while pious thieves Are fattening on our toil ! Look North look West the ominous sky Is starless, moonless, black, And from the East comes hurrying up A sweeping thunder-rack ! V. Men of the South ! Ye have no kin With fanatics, or fools ; 92 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Ye are not bound by breed, or birth, To Massachusetts rules ! A hundred nations gave their blood To feed these healthful springs, Which bear the seed of Jacques Bonliomme, With those of Bourbon kings. The Danish pluck and sailor craft The Huguenotic will The Norman grace and chivalry The German steady skill The fiery Celt s impassioned thought Inspire the Southron s heart, Which has no room for bigot-gloom, Or pious plunder s art ! YI. Sons of the brave ! The time has come To bow the haughty crest, Or stand alone, despite the threats Of North, or East, or West ! The hour has come for manly deeds, And not for puling words ; The place is past for platform prate It is the time for swords ! Now, by the fame of JOHN CALHOUN, To honest truth be true ! And by old JACKSON S iron will, Now do what ye can do ! By all ye love by all ye hope Be resolute and proud ; And make your flag a symbol high Of triumph, or a shroud ! THEEE IS LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET. 93 VII. Men of the South ! Look up behold The deep and sullen gloom, That darkles o er our sunny land With thunder in its womb ! Are ye so blind ye cannot see The omens in the sky ? Are ye so deaf ye cannot hear The tramp of foemen nigh ? Are ye so dull ye will endure The whips and scorn of men, Who wear the heart of TITUS GATES Beneath the face of PENN ? Never, I ween ! and foot to foot, Ye now will gladly stand For land and life, for child and wife, With naked steel in hand ! BY JAMES R. RANDALL, MARYLAND. BY blue Patapsco s billowy dash The tyrant s war-shout comes, Along with the cymbal s fitful flash, And the growl of his sullen drums. We hear it ! we heed it with vengeful thrills, THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And we shall not forgive or forget, There s faith in the streams, there s hope in the hills " There is life in the Old Land yet !" Minions ! we sleep, but we are not dead ; We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred ; We crouch tis to welcome the triumph-tread Of peerless Beauregard! Then woe to your vile polluting horde, When the Southern braves are met, There s faith in the victor s stainless sword " There is life in the Old Land yet !" Bigots ! ye quell not the valiant mind, With the clank of an iron chain ; The spirit of Freedom sings in the wind, O er Merryman, Thomas and Kane ! And we though we smile not are not thralls ; We are piling a gory debt ; E en down by McHenry s dungeon walls, " There is life in the Old Land yet I" Our women have hung their harps away, And they scowl on your brutal bands, While the nimble poignard dares the day, In their dear, defiant hands ; They will strip their tresses to string our bows, Ere the Northern sun is set, There is faith in their unavenged woes " There is life in the Old Land yet !" There s life, though it throbbeth in silent veins, Tis vocal without noise ; THE SCOUT. 95 It gushed o er Manassas gory plains, In the blood of the Maryland boys ! That blood shall cry aloud, and rise With an everlasting threat, By the death of the brave ! by the God in the skies ! " There is life in the Old Land yet I" BY SANS SOTJCI. CHEEPING stealthily through the grass, Peering around on hands and knees, To take him down, should an enemy pass, He glides among the trees. One inch higher, And glint of fire, From yon long glittering tube, half peeping Out of that low and ragged bush, "Would lay the scout forever sleeping, And spoil the evening s holy hush. He sees the shine Of the foe s carbine ; He knows he has met a hostile ranger, And buries his body deeper still, Down in the grass, to avoid the danger Of being dosed with a leaden pill He throws his eye On a tree near by, 96 THE SOUTHERN AXARANTH. If he reaches that, he is not afraid ; So he creeps till he lies in the ample shade,. And now the rifles of North and South, Are gaping into each other s mouth, Now the game begins ; "Pis for life who wins ? And both are wary, and both are firm To give no chance to the other s skill j So wriggling like a tortured worm, Each chooses the easiest way to kill ; Crack ! there s a shot From the rebel spot ; The other starts from his bended knee, And leaps out into the open space ; He is mad to leave the shade of the tree There was room enough to shoot in his place He raises the gun It is like a tun The way he lifts it. What ails the man ? He aims it ; but it droops from its aim ; There s not as much as a flash in the pan It looks as if he were losing game. His eyes grow wild, Like a frightened child ; He tries to steady himself on his gun, But misses the prop, and he falls like lead, Just where a ray of the rising sun Falls on his face, and shows him dead/ NEW YOKE METKOPOUTAN KECORD. ON TO EICHMOND. to m AFTER SOUTHEYS " MAECH TO MOSCOW. BY JOHN B. THOMPSON, OF VIEGINIA. MAJOE GENEEAL SCOTT An order had got To push on the column to Eichmond ; 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 Eichmond. 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 in fine words, 98 THE SOUTHEEN AMAEA3TIL 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 Eichmond or h 11 !" (I omit here the vowel,) And Winfield he ordered his carriage and four, A dashing turnout, to be brought to the door, For a pleasant excursion to Kichmond. 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, ON TO RICHMOND. 99 And writers of books, The chef de cuisine with his French bill of fare, And the artists to dress the young officers hair. And the scribblers were 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 100 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. 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 j And the battery called Sherman s Was wheeled into line, While the beer-drinking Germans From Neckar and Ehine, 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 Eichmond. Ere the march was begun, In a spirit of fun, General Scott in a speech Said the 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 Eichmond 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, ON TO RICHMOND. 101 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, In their perilous path ; And Johnson 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 bis eye, The light that once blazed upon Diomed s crest. McDowell ! McDowell ! weep, weep for the day, When the Southrons you met 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 Eichmond, HICHMOND WHIG. 102 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY J. E. BAEEICK, KENTUCKY. HE did not ask that the marble slab, Above his dust should rise, Nor the gilded shaft with his story point, To the blue Virginia skies ; A land to its high-born idols wed, He knew would his memory shrine, Long as he slept in the classic shade Of the mighty Oak and Pine. The sculptured stone and the sacred um May tell of the dying name, And the monument to ages bear The record of its Fame ; Yet, vain were such to his piercing eye, As he scanned the shadowy years, And saw his name on the royal roll, The brightest among its peers. His eye, in its fervor, glances set On Fame s eternal Sun, His star in the zenith of glory rose With that of Washington ; * "On the highest elevation within his rail enclosure, or yard, stood/ an oak of great size facing the east, and twelve feet toward the west was an enormous pine of immense height and majestic mien. In this space John Kandolph, at an early day selected his final resting- place. His wishes in this respect were not disregarded, for in that memorable space, without tombstone or monument and with only the oak and the pine as nature s sentries, rest the ashss of Virginia s; brightest intellect. " CAVAXIEIL THE MONUMENT OAK AND PINE. 103 And scornful of all worldly pomp Of the hollow sound of praise ; He traced on the scroll of his cenotaph, In the light of the after-days. He sleeps as the sons of genius sleep, On a consecrated spot, "While the trump of Fame, to the world proclaims, He shall never be forgot ; For ages still will Virginia s heart Over the spot recline ; Its grief with the mournful requiem blend, Of the sentry Oak and Pine. Keen as the clear Damascan blade Each quick sarcastic word, His thoughts in a gush of eloquence That coldest bosom stirred ; As the nervous glance of his flashing eye Through the Council Chamber ran, When armed with the Jael -sword of Truth, He led in the Eoman van. Blent with dust of their kindred soil, His ashes of renown, With his memory like a jewel set. In Virginia s casket crown ; And as the seasons come and go, And the passing years decline, No greener spot will the sleeper mark, Than the sturdy Oak and Pine. ATLANTA INTELUGKNCEK. 104: THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. I BY JOHN II. JOHNSON, M. D., GEOKGIA. GAY, guiltless thing ! How like a queen Art thou among the sisterhood of spring, Blushing unseen In this sequestered spot, By nature cherished, though by man forgot By ruined hearth, Or moss-grown tomb, The sad memorial of departed worth, Thy virgin bloom Scents with perfume the gale, And cheers with hope the once remembered vale. Thou dost at even, Unfold thy leaves, To welcome in the crystal tears of Heaven ; As one that heaves With sorrow o er the tomb, "Where love steals balm from amaranthine bloom. * On one of the marches of the Confederate army, owing to the im passable condition of the road, the train had to move through a field. So much rain had fallen and the earth was so saturated with water, that two wagons could not move in the same track. The writer stood for some time in a small graveyard in the edge of the field, looking at a small rose growing near one of the graves; and seeing that each wagon came nearer, and knowing that it would ultimately be crushed, he plucked it, and when he reached camp that evening penned these lines. THE CHARGE BY THE FORD. 105 And jet, sweet thing, Mortality With all its hopes once jocund as the spring, Is typed in thee, Passing as swift away As leaf by leaf in an autumnal day. Yet spring returns To thee sweet rose, As life eternal to our spirit urns, With sweet repose, When spring shall strew with flowers The paths we joyous roam in Eden s floral bowers. SCOTT S MONTHLY MAGAZINE, FOE JUNE, 1867. THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH, NEW JEESET. EIGHTY and nine with their captain, Kode in the enemy s track, Bode in the grey of the morning Nine of the ninety came back Slow rose the mist from the river ; Lighter each moment the way , Careless and tearless and fearless, Galloped they on to the fray. Singing in tune, how the scabbards, Loud on the stirrup-irons rang ; Clinked as the men rose in saddle, Fell, as -they sank, with a clang. 106 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. What is it moves by the river, Jaded, and weary, and weak ? Grey -backs, a cross on their banner Yonder the fbo whom they seek. j Silence ! they see not, they hear not, Tarrying there by the marge ; Forward ! draw sabre ! Trot ! Gallop ! Charge ! like a hurricane, charge ! Ah ! twas a man-trap infernal ! Fire like the deep pit of hell ; Volley on volley to meet them, Mixed with the grey rebels yelL Ninety had ridden to battle, Tracing the enemy s track Ninety had ridden to battle ; Nine of the ninety came back. Honor the nine of the ninety, Honor the heroes who came Scatheless from five hundred muskets, Safe from the lead-bearing flame. I Eighty and one of the troopers Lie on the field of the slain Lie on the red field of honor Honor the nine who remain. Cold are the dead there, and gory, There where their life blood was spilt ; Back came the nine with each sabre Eed from the point to -the hilt "OF VERY FAITHFULNESS." 10T Out with three cheers and a tiger I Let the flags wave as they come ! Give them the blast of the trumpet ! Give them the roll of the drum I OLD GUAKD. "Of very faithfulness them hast caused me to be troubled. * PSALMS, BY MISS MOT.LTF. E. MOOBE, TEXAS. DEAE Christ, how I sigh for life s blessings ! Now, what have I done Lord, that I am denied of the blessings, Even I, alone? " Worm, what hast thou done, or how striven, That thou shouldst be thought of in Heaven, Where the gifts are prepared that are given Away from the throne ?" Dear Christ, even that thou hadst given Is gone in a day ! Lord, Lord, oh, why hast thou given And taken away ? " Clay, hast thou a place for thy treasures Where dust will not dim them ? Are pleasures For thee to retain, whose lease measures An hour, or a day ?" 108 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Dear Christ, I am sinking with burdens, And wearying fast ! Stern master, ah, why am I burdened Thus, blind and outcast ? " Slave, have I not bought thee with prices, With sorrows arid large sacrifices ? Groan thou, till thy sorrow suffices For mine that is past !" But Christ, ah sweet Christ, I am lonely And wretched to see ! Dear Lord, because I am lonely Have pity on me ! " Child ! weep all thy tears on my bosom ! vLean closer, yet close to my bosom, Because thou. art bruised, oh blossom! Draw nigh unto Me ! " When thou comest with question, I smite thee, Oh, lonely to see ! Because thou didst question. I smote thee, In mercy to thee 1 The rose-leaf is bruised to its merit, And souls to the crowns they inherit I Of faithfulness child, that thy spirit Might cleave unto Me I" THE VICTOBY OF FAITH. 109 COL. WM. S. HAWKINS. C. S. A., TKNKESSEE. Prisoner of war; Camp Chase, Ohio. AT the trumpet s blast the gates flew wide, And thousands packed the court, Before the Eoman lords that day, The captives furnished sport ; The sun s broad orb went up the sky, And tipped the scene with gold, And far beyond the Claudian way The yellow Tiber rolled. The Galdiators first in strife, Their glittering weapons crossed, And furious then in mortal rage. The waves of conflict tossed ; Strong men were there, whose children played, By Danube s sluggish tide ; And those whose homes lay sweet and fair, Along the Taurus s side. The fierce-eyed tigers, of the Lybian wild, Leaped forth into the cirque, And spotted leopards lithe and strong, Began their horrid work ; And howls of pain, and yells of wrath, Filled all the. trembling air, "While Koman knights applauded loud, And smiled the Eoman fair. 110 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. At length tlie Herald far proclaimed, The last, best scene of all, And led a Christian martyr forth, In fetters grievous thrall : No youth, with form of manly strength No feeble, grey haired sire, A soft-eyed maiden, sweet and pure, To whet a lion s ire. She stood, her timid glance cast down, And trembling like a fawn, Which baying hounds and hunters rude Surround at hour of dawn : One white hand slowly lifted up The cruel, wearing chain, And one pressed close her beating heart, Suffused with grief and pain. She thought of home and peaceful joys ; Her father strong and proud, Her mother clinging faithful soul By weight of misery bowed ; Her sisters, and her brothers fond Of ONE she would not speak, But at the slightest thought of him, A blush o erspread her cheek. And so they neared the monster s den, With triple iron bound ; Through all the spectacles his might, With bloodiest triumphs crowned. White his large teeth, and stark and red His yawning, dreadful throat His eyes, with greed afire, were turned On his new prize to gloat THE VICTORY OF FAITH. Ill He rose, and shook liis shaggy mane, And clambered at his door, The far-off hill -tops echoed loud, His deep resounding roar ; So, in the Nubian waste, he looked When roused by foe for fight ; Twas such a glance and such a roar As filled their souls with fright They loosed her chains and left her there In all her maiden grace ; While star-like, heavenly faith, lit up Her fair and modest face. The rusted hinges turned, and forth The brute in fury sprung ; His lips all necked with wrathful foam, And swelled his lolling tongue. The breathless thousands rose to see That youthful martyr die, But oh ! what magic spell is that Whose lustre fills her eye ? Her sweet lips part, her full heart throbs, Her beauteous hands are raised ; The cruel beast forgot his wrath, Before that look amazed ! She kneels, and on the yielding sand Her rounded form sinks low, Down in her soul the maiden prays Unto her God and lo ! The pure appeal is borne on high, By watching angels fleet ; And now the humbled lion comes, And crouches at her feet 112 THE SOUTHERN AMAKANTH. Her little hand is softly laid Upon his tawny mane, Her tender eyes are wet with tears, Like rose-buds after rain ; The watching courtiers shake the ring "With thunderous acclaim ; But her weak lips can only shape Her heavenly Father s mane. The Emperor rose in purple state, And bade his minions bear The ransomed maiden forth again To freedom s grateful air ; And stately priests their rites ordained Within the temple grove, Ascribing praise to Juno fair, And to Olympian Jove. So let the Church in these dark days Stand bravely at her post, Though cruel wars and strife abound And Satan leads his host ; They gnash their lion fangs at her, But ah ! they gnash in vain, For God will send his armies down To save and to sustain. And in some gracious coming time, Her banner white shall be The truest badge of might sublime, That waves o er land or sea ; And war s red-lettered creed die out, Beneath her flowers of spring , And where our martyrs fight and bleed Their babes shall sit and sing. Ou> GUABD. RAIN IN THE HEAET. 113 <put w tie [The following lines were found by a Confederate soldier in deserted house on the Peninsula, Virginia. J " Into each life some rain must fall." IF this were all oh ! if this were all That into each life some rain must fall, There were fainter sobs in the poet s rhyme, There were fewer wrecks on .the shores of time. But tempests of woe pass over the soul Since winds of anguish we cannot control ; And shock after shock we are called to bear, Till the lips are white with the heart s despair. The shores of time with wrecks are strewn, Into the ear comes ever a moan, Wrecks of hopes, that set sail with glee, "Wrecks of love, sinking silently. .Many are hidden from the human eye, Only Grod knoweth how deep they lie ; Only God heard when arose the prayer " Help me to bear ! oh 1 help me to bear. " Into each life some rain must fall," If this were all oh ! if this were all ! Yet there s a refuge from storm and blast, Gloria patri we ll reach it at last. Be strong, be strong, to my heart I cry, The pearl in the wounded shell doth lie ; Days of sunshine are given to all, Though into each life some rain must fall 114 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY DB. F. O. TICKNOK, GEOBGIA. THE knightliest of the knightly race, Who, since the days of old, Have kept the lamp of chivalry Alight in hearts of gold ; The kindliest of the kindly band, Who, rarely hunting ease, Yet rode with Spotswood round the land, And Kaleigh round the seas. Who climbed the blue Virginia hills, Against 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 hearts of many homes In loveliness and worth. We thought they slept ! the sons who kept, The names of noble sires, And slumbered while the darkness crept Around the vigil fires. But still the Golden Horseshoe knights Their old Dominion keep, Whose foes have found enchanted ground, But not a knight asleep. A PRAYER. 115 BY FADETTE, AUTHOR OF INGEMISCO. I. LORD GOD or HOSTS ! we lift our heart to Thee ! Our streaming eyes lift vainly toward Thy Throne Earth s mists and shadows are so mighty grown, The gleam of seraph-wings no more we see. n. Lord God of Hosts ! we lift our heart to Thee ! Our hands are fettered down by galling chains, No more the sceptre in our grasp remains, Beneath the yoke we pass, with liberty. in. Lord God of Hosts ! we lift our heart to Thee ! Our brows are bowed beneath Thy crown of thorn, Tis heavy with the blood of braves we mourn, It darkles with the life-blood of the free ! IV. Lord God of Hosts ! we lift our heart to Thee ! A ceaseless moan wails on in breeze of morn, Through all the busy din of day upborne, And when the gloaming broodeth o er the sea. V. O God of Hosts ! turn Thou and hear that moan ! No Southern lips are strangers to its sound, And shuddering in the merry frolics round, Our prattling children catch its monotone. 116 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. VI. Strong men weep now, who never wept before,. Girl voices sorrow loud and passionate, Black, stolid women yearning at Thy gate, Prayer-worn lips quiver, faded eyes brim o er. VII. Thy gate it is the only open door, Where standeth Azrael, beckoning one by one ; By which we leave, our pilgrim goal being won, This drear God s Acre, crimsoned, drenched in gore. VIII. Each lowly grave our mountains proudly mark ; Death seared the land throughout with fiery tread,, O Thou who gavest tears to Lazarus dead, Behold our mother-country lieth stark ! IX. It is too late for us to raise or save, We struggled with the blood-hound at her throat, We saw his savage glare above her gloat ; Teach us to kneel, O God, beside her grave. X. Teach us to kneel to Thee alone, O God ! The tyrant fain would spurn us at his feet, The gore upon our mother s winding-sheet Would brand us murderers, trickling through the sod. XI. Teach us to kneel teach us to pray, O God, Not for revenge, for vengeance is Thine own ; A PRAYER. 117 But that Thou hear our ceaseless, suppliant moan, And that Thou see we bow beneath Thy rod. XII. Lord God of Hosts ! do Thou lift up our hearts ; Let them not lower neath our fetters weight ; Let not our war-worn heroes stoop to fate, Nor barter Honor in the foe s full marts. XIII. The laurels in God s Acre shelter Thou, Let still the people s patriotic tears Wash from their shining crests the dust of years, And dews from heaven vivify each bough. XIV. O garner Thou the lowlier flowers that rest Beneath the sod, until Thou bid them rise ; Receive them, meet and stainless sacrifice, And take them, gracious Father, to Thy breast. XV. Break Thou, Lord God, our captor s length ning chain, Wherewith the foe hath man and freedom bound ; From deep to deep its clanking doth resound, Our hearts beat heavy to the dull refrain. XVI. Hear Thou his prayer, to whom alone he prays ; In loving mercy guard his widowed wife ! With honor hedge his orphaned children s life, Untarnished keep Thou, aye, his hard-won bays. 118 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. XVII. Lord God ! to Thee with him our heart we give ; O Thou that heardest Mary s stricken moan, Boll from our mother s grave the sealed stone Say to the dead within " Come forth and live !" Ife <8Mtt Sfttnt. BY THOS. BUCHANAN BEAD. The following exquisite poem is pronounced, by the Westmin ster Review, to be unquestionably the finest of American authorship. Alas ! that the story therein detailed cannot be an isolated one. Full many a grass-green hillock is the vernal shroud of a broken heart. WITHIN the sober realms of leafless trees, The russet year inhaled the dreamy air ; Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease When all the fields are lying brown and bare. The gray barns looking from their hazy hills, O er the dun waters widening in the vales, Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, On the dull thunder of alternate flails. All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued, The hills seemed further and the stream sang As in a dream the distant woodman hewed His winter log, with many a muffled blow. THE CLOSING SCENE. 119 The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold, Their banners bright with every martial hue, Now stood, like some sad, beaten host of old, Withdrawn afar in Time s remotest blue. On sombre wings the vulture tried his flight ; The dove scarce heard his sighing mate s complaint ; And, like a star slowly drowning in the light, The village church vane seemed to pale and faint The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew Crew thrice and all was stiller than before ; Silent, till some replying warbler blew His altern horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst the jay within the tall elm s crest, Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young, And where the oriole hung her swaying nest, By every light wind like a censer swung. "Where sang the noisy martins of the eaves, The busy swallows circling ever near Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, An early harvest, and a plenteous year: Where every bird that watched the vernal feast, Shook the sweet slumber from his wings at morn ; To warn the reaper of the rosy east : All now was sunless, empty and forlorn. Alone, from out the stubble piped the quail ; And croaked the crow through all the dreary gloom Alone, the pheasant drumming in the vale, Made echo in the distant cottage loom. 120 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers ; The spiders moved their thin shrouds night by night, The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers. Sailed slowly by passed noiseless out of sight Amid all this, in this most dreary air, And where the woodbine shed upon the porch Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there, Firing the floor with its inverted torch Amid all this the centre of the scene, The white haired matron, with monotonous tread, Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien Sat like a fate, and watched the flying thread. She had known Sorrow He had walked with her. Oft supped, and broke the ashen crust, And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir Of his thick mantle trailing in the dust. "While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, Her country summoned, and she gave her all ; And twice, war bowed to her his sable plume Kegave the sword to rust upon the wall. Eegave the sword, but not the hand that drew And struck for liberty the dying blow ; Nor him, who to his sire and country true, Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe. Long, but not loud, the drooping wheel went on, Like a low murmur of a hive at noon ; Long, but not loud the memory of the gone Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tone. THE TENNESSEE EXILE S SONG. 121 At last the thread was snapped, her head was bowed ; Life dropped the distaff through her hands serene, And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud ; "While death and winter closed the autumn scena I HEAR the rushing of her streams, The murmuring of her trees, The exile s anguish swells my heart And melts with each soft breeze. 1 Midst other scenes her corn-hills wave Her mountains pierce the sky Where, where are they who swore to save - To conquer or to die ? They come from every blue hill-side. From every lovely dale, The heart, the soul, the very pride Of mountain, hill and vale ; They court, like Anak s stalwart sons, The rapture of the strife, Drink in the earthquake of the guns, To them the breath of life. .Spare not the invading mongrel hordes, But slay them as they stand ! Strike ! Tennessee has living swords, The best in all the land ! 122 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Strew o er her plains their hostile lines, Drench her fair fields with blood, Fill their long ranks with bitter groans Let blood flow like a flood ! Aye, sow the seeds of lasting hate At Johnson s, Hatton s graves, And do their deeds, and dare their fate, Or live the oppressors slaves ! Bleed freely, as you did of yore, In every well fought field, Press round the flag yon always bore The foremost, as a shield. # * * * * 4 I feel the pulse beat high and quick, Her sinews stretch for strife ; Full come her heart-throbs deep and thick, She kindles into light ! Though Donelson has told her tale, And Shiloh s page is bright, There s yet a bloodier field to win, For Nashville and the right ! WALKER MEEIWEATHEE BELL, KENTUCKY. A PRICE is on my darling s head, Outlawed and hunted down ; Yet is my love more proudly true Than if it wore a crown. THE SOUTHEBN WIFE. A crown thy dark hair is a crown, And if amid its curls Gleam silver lines of care, they shine Fairer to me than pearls. Yainly they strive to brand thy brow, That dauntless brow, with shame ; I never knew how proud, till now, I was to bear thy name. My woman s heart swells with the thought, And triumph fills my breast, To know that fearless head had sought No other place of rest. How blest the privilege to share A patriot s high career ; There is no pang I could not bear For cause and love so dear. For worlds I would not shame my lord "With unavailing fears, Nor gird my soldier with a sword Stained by a woman s tears. I know that many a costly life Of father, husband, son, Must yield in this wild battle strife Ere all is lost or won. Yet will I compass thee about Where er thy footsteps move, With the strong rampart of my prayers The yearning prayers of love. METROPOLITAN HECORD. 12S 124 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. The following beautiful lines were found on the body of a young soldier belonging to one of the Alabama regiments in General Lee s army, and are supposed to have been written by his mother ; as none but a mother s loving heart could have prompted such exquisite sen timents : I KNOW the sun shines and the lilacs are blowing, And the summer sends kisses by beautiful May; Oh ! to see the rich treasures the spring is bestowing, And think my boy, Willie, enlisted to-day. It seems but a day since at twilight, low humming, I rocked him to sleep with his cheek upon mine, While Kobby, the four-year-old, watched for the coming Of father, adown the street s indistinct line. It is many a year since my Harry departed, To come back no more in the twilight or dawn ; And Hobby grew weary of watching, and started Alone on the journey his father had gone. It is many a year, and this afternoon, sitting At Bobby s old window, I heard the band play, And suddenly ceased dreaming over my knitting To recollect Willie was twenty to-day. And that standing beside him this soft, May-day mora- in g> The sun making gold of his wreathing cigar-smoke, I saw in his sweet eye and lips a faint warning And choked down the tears when he eagerly spoke. WILLIE. 125 " Dear motlier, you know how these Northmen are crow ing, They would trample the rights of the South in the dust ; The boys are all fire, and they wish I were going." He stopped, but his eyes said, " say, if I must !" I smiled on my boy, though my heart it seemed break ing; My eyes filled with tears as I turned them away ; I answered him, " Willie, tis well you are waking ; Go do as your father would bid you, to-day." I sit in the window and see the flags flying, And dreamily list to the roll of the drum ; And smother the pain in my heart that is lying, And bid all the fears in my bosom be dumb. I shall sit in the window when the summer is lying Out over the fields ; and the honey bee s hum Lulls the rose at the porch from her tremulous sighing, And watch for the face of my darling to come. And if he should fall, his young life he has given For freedom s sweet sake, and for me, I will pray Once more, with my Harry and Kobby in Heaven, To meet the dear boy that enlisted to-day. METROPOLITAN RECORD. 126 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY GEN. S. B. BUCKNER, KENTUCKY. : GIE him strong drink until he wink, That s sinking in despair ; An liquor guid to fire his bluid That s prest wi grief an care ; Then let him bouse an deep carouse Wi bumpers flowing o er Till lie forgets his loves an debts, An minds his griefs no more. " BUENS. GIE me the light sae pure an bright, That beams in woman s e e ; Let others praise the starry rays, Her e e s the light for me. The glist ning sheen in summer s e en, Which in the sky we see ; Less brightly beams, an paler seems, Then that in woman s e e. Her voice, tis known, excels in tone The music of the spheres, A sure relief to care and grief, Are dulcet tones like hers. Whenever, then, we need a fren To soothe the aching heart, Wi a her wiles, sweet woman s smiles, True solace will impart THE KENTUCKY PARTISAN. 127 In bumpers deep some try to steep The griefs they cairn a quell ; !Let me but sip frae woman s lip, Where sweeter nectars dwelL Though in her pets she stamps an frets An fast her teardrops fa , Who wadna risk a storm sae brisk, To kiss the tears awa, Gie me the light sae pure and bright That beams in woman s e e ; Let ithers praise the starry rays, Her e e s the light for me. FOBT WABEEN PEISON, 1862. BY PAUL H. HAYNE. I HATH the wily Swamp Fox Come again to earth ? Hath the soul of Sumpter Owned a second birth ? Prom the Western hill-slopes Starts a hero form, Stalwart like the oak tree Tameless like the storm I 128 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTHS His an eye of lightning ! His a heart of steel ! Flashing deadly vengeance, Thrilled with fiery zeal : Hound him- down, ye minions, Seize him if ye can ; But woe betide the hireling knave That meets him, man to man ! II. Well done ! gallant MOKG-AN ! Strike with might and main, Till the fair field redden With a gory rain ; Smite them by the roadside, Smite them in the wood, By the lonely valley And the purpling flood ; JSTeath the mystic star-light, Neath the glare of day, Harass, sting, affright them, Scatter them and slay ! Beard, who durst, our chieftain ! Bind him if you can But woe betide the Hessian thief Who meets him, man to man I III. There s a lurid purpose Brooding in his breast, Born of solemn passion And a deep unrest, THE KENTUCKY PARTISAN. 129 For our ruined homesteads, And our ravaged land, For our women outraged By the dastard hand. For our thousand sorrows, And our untold shame, For our blighted harvests, For our towns of flame He has sworn (and recks not Who may cross his path,) That the foe shall feel him In his fervid wrath That, while will and spirit Hold 4 one spark of life, Blood shall stain his broadsword, Blood shall wet his knife. Oh ! ye Hessian horsemen, Crush him if ye can ; But woe betide your staunchest slave Who meets him, man to man I IY. Tis no time for pleasure ! Doff the silken vest ! Up, my men ! and follow Marion of the West ! Strike with him for freedom ; Strike with main and might, Neath the noon of splendor Neath the gloom of night. Strike by rock and roadside, Strike in wold and wood, 130 THE SOUTHERN AMAH AN TH. By the shadowy valley By the purpling flood. On ! where Morgan s war-horse Thunders in the van, God ! who would not gladly die Beside that glorious man ! 01 BY CAPTAIN THOKPE, OF KENTUCKY. UNCLAIMED by the land that bore us, Lost in the field, we find The brave have gone before us, Cowards, are left behind ! Then stand to your glasses, steady, Here s a health to those we prize, Here s a toast to the dead already, And here s to the next who dies ! BY DE. G. W. BAGBY, (MOSUS ADDUMS,) VIRGINIA. TOM, old fellow, I grieve to see That sleeve hanging loose at your side ; The arm you lost was worth to me Every Yankee that ever died. THE EMPTY SLEEVE. 131 But you don t mind it at all, You swear you ve a beautiful stump, And laugh at the 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 Malvern 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, How on earth can / be 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, " not worth her in your prime " Tom, the arm that has turned to clay, Your whole body has made sublime ; Eor 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 | 132 THE SOUTHERN AMAKANTH. And know you, Tom, 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 will find no myth, But a truth, living, tender and 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 helpling as hard as she can To put on his coat, 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 it s 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 Tom old with the empty sleeve, SOUTHERN ILLUSTRATED NEWS. ENGLAND S NEUTRALITY. 133 A PAELIAMENTAKY DEBATE. BY JOHN E. THOMPSON, VIRGINIA. .ALL ye who with credulity tlie whispers hear of fancy, Or yet pursue with eagerness Hope s wild extravagancy, Who dream that England soon will drop her long mis called Neutrality, And give us with a hearty shake, the hand of Nation ality, Read, as we give, with little fault of statement or omis sion, ; The next debate in Parliament on Southern Recogni tion ; They re all so much alike, indeed, that one can write it off, I see, As truly as the Times report, without the gift of proph esy. Not yet, not yet to interfere, does England see occasion, But treats our good Commissioner with coldness and evasion ; Such coldness in the premises that really tis refrig erant To think that two long years ago, she called us a bellig erent But further Downing Street is dumb, the Premier deaf to reason, -As deaf as is the Morning Post, both in and out of season ; 134 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. The working men of Lancashire are all reduced to beg gary, And yet they will not listen unto Koebuck or to Greg ory, " Or any other man, to-day, who counsels interfering, While all who speak on t other side obtain a ready hearing As per example Mr. Bright, that pink of all propriety. That meek and mild disciple of the blessed Peace Society. "Why let em fight," says Mr. Bright, " those Souther ners I hate em, I hope the Black Kepublicans will soon exterminate^ em; If Freedom can t Eebellion crush, pray tell me what s the use of her?" And so he chuckles o er the fray as gleefully as Luci fer. Enough of him ; an abler man demands our close atten-- tion The Maximus Apollo of strict Non Intervention. With pitiless severity, though decorous and calm his-* tone, Thus speaks the " old man eloquent," the puissant Earl of Palmerston : "What though the land run red with blood: what, though the lurid flashes Of cannon light at dead of night, a mournful heap of ashes ENGLAND S NEUTRALITY. 135 Where many an ancient mansion stood ? what though the robber pillages, The sacred home, the house of God, in twice a hundred villages ? "What though a fiendish, nameless wrong, that makes revenge a duty Is daily done " (0 Lord, how long) " to tenderness and beauty ?" (And who shall tell this deed of hell, how deadlier far a curse it is Than even pulling temples down and burning universi ties?) "Let arts decay, let millions fall, for aye let Freedom perish, With all that in the Western World men fain would love and cherish ; Let Universal Euin there become a sad reality : We cannot swerve, we must persevere our rigorous Neutrality. 0, Pam ! Oh, Pam ! hast ever read what s writ in holy pages, How blessed the Peacemakers are, God s children of the Ages ? Perhaps you think the promise sweet was nothing but a platitude ; Tis clear that you have no concern in that divine beati tude. But "hear! hear! hear!" another peer, that mighty man of muscle, Is on his legs, what slender pegs ! ye noble Earl of Russell ; 136 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Thus might lie speak, did not of speech his shrewd re serve the folly see, And thus unfold the subtle plan of England s secret policy : u John Bright was right ! Yes, let em fight, these fools across the water, Tis no affair at all of ours, their carnival of slaughter! The Christian world indeed may say we ought not to allow it, sirs, But still tis music in our ears, this roar of Yankee how itzers. "A word or two of sympathy, that costs us not a penny, We give the gallant Southerners, the few against the many ; We say their noble fortitude, of final triumph presages, And praise in Blackwoods Magazine, Jeff Davis and his messages " Of course we claim the shining fame of glorious Stonewall Jackson, Who typifies the English race, a sterling Anglo-Saxon ; To bravest song his deeds belong, to Clio and Melpo- (And why not for a British stream demand the Chicka- hominy ?) " But for the cause in which he fell we cannot lift a fin ger, Tis idle on the question any longer here to linger ; Tis true the South has freely bled, her sorrows are Homeric, oh ! Her case is like to his of old who journeyed unto Jer icho ENGLAND S NEUTRALITY. 137 * The thieves have stripped and bruised, although as yet they have not bound her ; We d like to see her slay em all to right and left around her; We shouldn t cry in Parliament if Lee should cross the Karitan, But England never yet was known to play the Good Samaritan. And so we pass to t other side and leave them to their glory, To give new proofs of manliness, new scenes for song and story ; These honeyed words of compliment may possibly bam boozle em, But ere we intervene, you know, we ll see em in Jer usalem. " Yes, let em fight, till both are brought to hopeless desolation, Till wolves troop round the cottage door, in one and t other nation, Till worn and broken down, the South shall prove no more refractory, And rust eats up the silent looms of every Yankee factory " Till bursts no more the cotton boll o er fields of Caro lina, And fills with snowy flosses the duskey hands of Dinah ; Till war has dealt its final blow, and Mr. Seward s knavery Has put an end in all the land to freedom and to slavery. 138 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. " The grim Bastile, tlie rack the wheel, without remorse or pity, May flourish with the guillotine in every Yankee city, No matter should Old Abe revive the brazen bull of Phalaris, "Pis no concern at all of ours " (sensation in the gal leries.) "So shall our merrie England thrive on trans- Atlan tic troubles, While India on her distant plains her crop of cotton doubles ; And just so long as North or South shall show the least vitality "We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous Neutrality." Your speech, my lord, might well become a Saxon leg islator, When the " fine old English gentleman " lived in a state of natur , When vikings quaffed from human skulls their fiery draughts of honey mead, Long, long before the barons bold met tyrant John at Kunnymed( But tis a speech so plain, my lord, that all may under stand it, And so we quickly turn again to fight the Yankee bandit, Convinced that we shall fairly win at last oar nationality, Without the help of Britain s arm in spite of her Neutrality. SOUTHERN ILLUSTRATED NEWS. SCENES. 139 BY PAUL H. HATNE. OH, God ! if gifted with an angel s flight, And somewhat of an angel s mystic sight, Twere ours to pass this bleeding country over "What visions would those piercing orbs discover I "What horrors branded on the shrinking brain Would burn and burn like purgatorial pain, Thrilling throughout our consciousness to rise In nightmare terror on our sleeping eyes ! Nay ! though our flight be fancy s and our view But owns the magic of an insight true, We well may pause and tremble as we see Eevived, in all their shame and infamy, JThe cruel orgies of that later day Of Borne, which knew the Borgia s cruel sway Ere Rome sunk to perdition - ! But with these Are mingled tenderer scenes and images, Mournful as any Shakspeare pitying wrought On the dim canvas of pathetic thought. Farewells, whereat no scorching tears are shed, Mute claspings of the brave, untimely dead, Calm hero bearings, though the heart be broke And the soul withered at the lightning s stroke Of supreme grief! unconscious children playing Despite a father s curse, a mother s praying ; Fair maidens, smiling on despair, to make 140 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. A lover s death-bed softer for love s sake, And all home s fragrant ministries that bring Full blosoms and odors (like a sudden spring Born in mid winter) to the sufferer s room, "Wafting both light and sweetness through the gloom Yet o er it all, fierce tumult and false calm, Unseen, but sovereign, rules the dread "I AM !" His prescience guides the complex threads of FATE, His mercy will not leave us desolate, For in our blood, our tears, and pain and sorrow, Hest the rich germs of some sublime to-morrow 1 SOUTHEBN ILLUSTRATED NEWS. 1863. BY HENRY TIMKOD, SOUTH CAROLINA. 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 a-glee, SPRING, 1863. 141 And there s a look about the leafless bowers, As if they dreamed of flowers. Yet still on every side we trace 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 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 creeping to the light, And soon will glad the sight. Already, here and there, on frailest stems Appear some azure gems Small as might deck upon a gala day The forehead of a fay. 4i 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 needs must pass Along the budding grass, And weeks go by, before the enamored South Shall kiss the rose s rnouth. 142 THE SOUTHERN AMAKANTH. Still there s a sense of blossoms yet unborn In the sweet airs of morn ; One almost looks to find 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 could couple thoughts of war and crime "With such a 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 the sun-lit 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, THE IRREPRESSIBLE CONFLICT. 143 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. (For my only son, aged fifteen, now in the seruice of his country.) BY A SOUTHEBN MOTHEB. GOD nless my daring, venturous boy Where er his feet may stray. God bless the sacred, righteous cause For which he went away ; God bless the little arm round which My wristlet went not tight, Strengthen it, Lord, till it becomes A David s in the fight. o So young, so bright, so fair, so brave, To Thee, oh God above, I leave the charge to shield and save The idol of my love. One more to battle for the right Of free men to be free, That hero s heart and childlike form I dedicate to Thee ! MEMPHIS, July 26th, 1864. METROPOLITAN KECOBD. 144 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY JAMES BAEBON HOPE. WHAT ! ye hold yourselves as freemen? Tyrants love just such, as ye ! Go ! abate your lofty manner ! Write upon your State s old banner, " A furore Normanorum Liber a nos, 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, Domine /" But ye hold that quick repentance In the Northern mind will be ; This repentance comes no sooner Than the robbers did, at Duna I " A furore Normanorum Libera nos, 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, Domine /" He repented ; then he sickened I Was he pining for the sea ? LIBEEA NOS, DOMINE. 145 In extremis was he shriven, The viaticum was given, " A furore Normanorum Libera nos, 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 j " A furore Normanorum Libera nos, Domine /" While the bishop and the abbot All the monks of high degree, Chanting praise to the Madonna Came to do him Christian honor I " A furore Normanorum Libera nos, 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, Domine /" Is it that these intonations Thrill him thus from head to knee ? Lo, his cerements burst asunder, Tis a sight for fear and wonder ! " A furore Normanorum Libera nos, Domine /" Fierce he stands before the bishop, Dark as shape of Destinie, 146 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Hark I a shriek ascends appalling, Down the prelate goes dead falling I " A furore Normanorum Liber a nos, Domine /" Hastings lives ! He was but feigning ! What ! Eepentant ? Never he ! Down he smites the priests and friars, And the city lights with fires ! "A. fur we Normanorum Liber a nos, 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 Liberanos, Domine!" Louder swells the fearful tumult- Pallid Death holds revelrie ! Dies the organ s mighty clamor By the horseman s iron hammer ! "A furore Normanorum Libera nos, Domine /" So they thought that he d repented I 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, Domine!" For the moral in this story, Which is plain as truth can be, GATHERING SONG. 147 If we trust the North s relenting, We shall shriek too late repenting, " A furore Normanorum Libera nos, Domine / " * Am Bonnie Blv, Flag. BY ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCH.TJM. OOME, brothers ! rally for the right ! The bravest of the brave Sends forth her ringing battle-cry, Beside the Atlantic wave ! She leads the way in honor s path ! Come, brothers near and far, Come rally round the Bonnie Bine Flag That bears a single star ! We ve borne the Yankee trickery, The Yankee gibe and sneer, Till Yankee insolence and pride Know neither shame nor fear ; But ready now with shot and steel, Their brazen front to mar, "We hoist aloft the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star ! * For this incident in the life of the sea-robber, Hastings, see Mil- man s History of Latin Christianity. 148 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Now Georgia marches to the front, And close behind her come Her sisters by the Mexique Sea With pealing trump and drum ! Till, answering back from hill and glen The rallying cry afar, A NATION hoists the Bonnie Blue Flag That bears a single star ! By every stone in Charleston Bay, By each beleaguered town, We swear to rest not night or day, But hunt the tyrants down ! Till, bathed in valor s holy blood, The gazing world afar Shall greet with shouts the Bonnie Blue Flag, That bears the Cross and Star ! I On being waked by its song, near the camp, in the dusk of morning. BY. E. F. W. SWEET bird that thrill st with early note The hedge-row charred and sere, Why swells and throbs thy downy throat With spring-tide raptures here, Where bristle men instead of corn And o er each belted line, The glimmering blade shoots up at morn To harsher calls than thine. TO A MOCKING BIKD. 149 The transitory mists that smoke Along yon river far, Yon earth-born clouds of pine and oak Await the storm of war ; Where "bugle-charge and rifle-din And cannon s deadly boom, Shall wreck thy bowers of jessamine, And beds of violet bloom. Before the battle-blasts arise Go, seek that halcyon west, And charm the spot where Rosa lies My baby at her breast Where, if thy modulated flute Prolong the strain, a glee Of bright-eyed children, wonder-mute Shall wake to honor thee. The pride of India scents the grove, With perfume rich and faint So breathes thy chanted peace and love, And musical complaint A painful sweet their freighted lays The charm then comes and goes The soldier s dream of happy days And nights of soft repose. But if thou com st to cheer my soul, With hints of what shall be A prophet with a dusky stole And pipe of jubilee 150 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Let not amid these glooms of war, Thy holy matins cease, Till thou shalt prove the morning star That leads the dawn of Peace ! CAMP GADBEBBT, JAMES ISLAND, March, 1863. SOUTHERN ILLUSTBATED NEWS. BY SUSAN AKCHEB TALLEY, VIEGINIA. AWAY I my steed in thy joyous pride, "With thy flashing eye and thy bounding stride I Away ! like a spirit from bondage freed, As we spurn the earth in our rushing speed, "While river, and woodland, and shore, and stream,* Are floating by as an airy dream. Light as the winds that around us blow, Glad as the waves on the beach below, Free as the flow of thine own bright mane, "We bound along the grassy plain ; And I feel my pulses with gladness fill, And a newer life through my being thrill. Oh ! mournful thoughts that have dimmed my brow ;: Oh ! sad forebodings, where are ye now ? What are the trials for which I care ? "What is the danger I would not dare ? Where duty summons or courage leads, Daring and doing a hero s deeds. A FAREWELL TO HOPE. 151 Oh ! for the din of the stormy fight, Now, in the flush of my conscious might ! How would I charge on the flying foe, Laying the ranks of invaders low And proudly trust in my sorest need, To my shining blade, and my noble steed ! SOUTHEBN ILLUSTEATED NEWS. BY JOHN B. THOMPSON, YIEGINIA. " HATS off" in the crowd, " Present arms " in the line ! Let the standards all bow and the sabres incline Roll, drums, the Rogue s March, while the conqueror goes, "Whose eyes have seen only " the backs of his foes " Through a thicket of laurel, a whirlwind of cheers, His vanishing form from our gaze disappears ; Henceforth with the savage Dacotahs to cope, iit evasit, erupit John Pope. He came out of the West, like the young Lochinvar, Compeller of fate and controller of war, Videre et vincere, simply to see, And straightway to conquer Hill, Jackson and Lee ; And old Abe at the "White House, like Kilmansegg pere, With a monkeyish grin and beatified air, " Seemed washing his hands with invisible soap," As with eager attention he listened to Pope. 152 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. He came and the poultry was swept by his sword, Spoons, liquors, and furniture went by the board; He saw, at a distance, the rebels appear, And " rode to the front," which was strangely the rear He conquered truth, decency, honor, full soon, Pest, pilferer, puppy, pretender, poltroon ! And was fain from the scene of his triumphs to slope, Sure there never was fortunate hero like Pope. He lias left as his shining example to note, And Stuart has captured his uniform coat ; But tis puzzling enough, as his deeds we recall, To tell on whose shoulders his mantle should fall ; While many may claim to deserve it, at least, From Hunter, the Hound, down to Butler the Beast, None else, we can say, without risking the trope, But himself can be parallel ever to Pope. Like his namesake the poet, of genius and fire, He gives new expression and force to the lyre ; But in one little matter they differ, the two, And differ, indeed, very widely, tis true While his verses gave great Alexander his fame, Tis our hero s re- verses accomplish the same ; And fate may decree that the end of a rope, Shall award yet his highest position to Pope. THE TWO ARMIES. 153 BY HENBY TIMKOD, SOUTH CAROLINA. Two armies stand enrolled beneath The banner with the starry wreath ; One facing battle, blight and blast, Through twice a hundred fields has passed ; Its deeds against a ruffian foe, Stream, valley, hill and mountain know, Till every wind that sweeps the land Goes glory-laden from the strand. The other, with a narrower scope, Yet led by not less grand a hope, Hath won perhaps a prouder place, (Tribes march beneath its glittering sign,) And wears its fame with meeker grace. Fond mothers swell the lovely line, And many a sweetheart hides her blush In the young patriot s generous flush. No breeze of battle ever fanned The colors of that tender band ; Its office is beside the bed. Where throbs some sick or wounded head. It does not court the soldier s tomb, But plies the needle and the loom ; And, by a thousand peaceful deeds, Supplies a struggling nation s needs. Nor is that army s gentle might, Unfelt amid the deadly fight ; It nerves the son s, the husband s hands, It points the lover s fearless brand ; 154 THE. SOUTHERN AMARANTH. It thrills tlie languid, warms the cold. Gives even new courage to the bold ; And sometimes lifts the veriest clod To own its lofty trust in God. When Heaven shall blow the trump of peace, And bid this weary warfare cease, Their several missions nobly done, The triumph grasped and freedom won Both armies from their toils at rest Alike may claim the victor s crest, But each shall see its dearest prize Gleam softly from the other s eyes. SOUTHEBN ILLUSTBATED NEWS. ito gpiifo BY PAUL H. HAYNES, SOUTH CAROLINA. THE early spring-time faintly flushed the earth, And in the woods, and by their favorite stream The fair, wild roses blossomed modestly Above the wave that wooed them : there at eve, Philip had brought the woman that he loved, And told his love and bared his burning heart She, Constance, the shy sun-gleams trembling oft, Though dewy leaves upon her golden hair, Made him no answer, tapped her pretty foot, And seemed to muse : a To-morrow I depart," Said Philip, sadly, " for wild fields of war Shall I go, girl, with love s invisible mail, Stronger than mortal armor, or, all stripped Of love and hope, march reckless unto death ? * THE LITTLE WHITE GLOVE. 155 A soft mist filled her eyes, and overflowed In sudden rain of passion, as she stretched Her delicate hand to his, and plighted troth, "With lips more rosy than the sun-bathed flowers ; And Philip pressed the dear hand fervently, Wherefrom in happy mood, he gently drew A small white glove, and ere she guessed his will, Clipped lightly from her forehead one golden curl r And bound the glove, and placed it next his heart "Now I am safe," cried Philip, "this pure charm Is proof against all hazard or mischance ! Here, yea ! unto this self-same spot I vow To bring it stainless back ; and you shall wear This little glove upon our marriage eve !" And Constance heard him, smiling through her tears.. Another spring-time faintly flushed the earth, And in the woods, and by their favorite stream, The fair, wild roses blossomed modestly Above the wave that wooed them : there at eve Came a pale woman with wild, wandering eyes, And tangled, gold n ringlets, and weak steps Tottering towards the streamlet s rippling marge, She seemed phantasmal, shadowy, like the forms By moonlight conjured up from a place of graves ; There crouching o er the stream, she laved and laved Some object in it, with a strained regard, And muttered fragments of distempered words, Whereof were these : " He vowed to bring it back, The love-charm that I gave him my white glove Stainless and whole ! He has not kept his oath ! Oh ! Philip ! Philip ! have you cast rne off OIF, like this worthless thing you send me home, 156 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Tattered and mildewed ? Look you ! what a rent, Right through the palm ! It cannot be my glove ! And look again I what horrid stain is here ! My glove ! you placed it next your heart, and swore To keep it safe, and on this self-same spot, Eeturn it to me, on our marriage eve ; And now and now I know tis not my glove, Yet Philip, sweet ! it was a cruel jest, You surely did not mean to fright me thus ? For hark you ! as I laved the loathsome thing, To see what stain defiled it (do not smile, I feel that I am foolish, foolish Philip ) But God of Heaven ! I dreamed that stain was Uoodl" SOUTHERN ILLUSTRATED NEWS. Post number one: "All s well!" Post number two: "All s well!" and so the assuring cry goes the circuit of the camp. OFFICER S NOTE-BOOK. BY MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON. VIRGINIA. " ALL S WELL,: How the musical sound Is pleasantly smiting the ear, As the sentinel paces his round And carols his tidings of cheer ! Half startled the soldier awakes, Recalling his senses that roam ; Tis but for a moment it breaks On the dream he was dreaming of home : " All s well !" "ALL S WELL." 157 " All s well !" Through the lengthening lines Each sentry re-echoes the word, And faint through yon forest of pines, The distant responses are heard : On the marge of the nebulous night, A weary, reiterate sigh, It ripples, then vanishes quite In the infinite depths of the sky. "All s well I" "All s well ! In the battle of life, Does my soul like a sentinel stand, Prepared to encounter the strife With well burnished weapon in hand ? While the senses securely repose, And doubt and temptation have room, Does the clear eye of conscience unclose ? Does she listen, and hear through the gloom, "All s well!" " All s well !" Can I echo the word? Does faith wield supremest control ? Have its tender persuasions been heard In the questionless depths of my soul ? Then fear not : the conflicts, the scars, The deadly death-struggle all past, Clear voices, that fall from the stars, Will herald thee victor at last "All s well I THE LAND WE LOVE. 158 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY EDWARD L. WARNER, M. D., NOBTH CAROLINA. FROM the hills of the "West to the shores of the sea, From the yellow Koanoke to the distant Pedee, A wild wail of sorrow ascendeth on high, For the heroes who bleed and the martyrs who die. The hearts of our fathers are breaking with pain, And the tears of our mothers descending like rain, For the loved and the lost who homeward no more Return from the field so red with their gore. That banner of ours which so proudly hath flown "Where the demon of carnage claimed all us his own> Now droops in its gloom, while the cypress is seen Entwined with the laurels on its glittering sheen. The foemen exult as they bury the slain Who fell in the charge on that terrible plain ; For Carolina s brave sons the pride of the South Lie covered with glory at the dread cannon s mouth. Ah ! well may they gloat o er the work they have done, And boast of the field they so dearly have won, When the hearts of such heroes forever are still As fought at Manassas and Malvern s proud hill j And at Bethel and Sharpsburg, all reckless of death, Came down on the foe like the hurricane s breath, And scattered his legions o er mountain and lea, As the leaves of the forest or the foam of the sea. THE BROKEN SWOKD. 159 But hark ! as we mourn for the " good and the true," For Marshall, Burgwin and the brave Pettigrew, Through forest and city, o er river and plain, A wild cry for vengeance re-echoes again. For the noble old State, thank God for the sight I Is burning and arming once more for the fight ; And, dashing the tear from her sorrowing eye, By Jehovah she swears to conquer or die ! Proud men of the North, from the rebels ye spurn A lesson of blood you will speedily learn ; And though jubilant now, beware I oh, beware ! For your boastings shall turn to wails of despair. < BY WALKEB MERIWETHEK BELL. " No, never shall this trusty glaive, Which I so long have borne ; Be grasped by hands less true or brave, Or coward s side adorn. Too oft in war its silver beam, True men have followed far ; As thro the battle storm its gleam Flashed like a falling star. Dear hands have bound it to my side, While struggling to repress Unbidden tears, and sweet lips cried, "Go love, thy cause is West !" * Suggested by an incident which occurred after the surrender of Port Donelson. 160 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And often in Ms childish joy Along the shining blade, The dimpled fingers of my boy In artless wonder strayed. Then think you I could lightly fling At some proud foeman s feet, A sword round which rich memories cling- So sacred and so sweet ? No, rather let it evermore Best neath thy rolling flood, Oh stream, that laves my native shore, Now darkly stained with blood !" Then proudly turning from them, he, Unsheathing as he spoke The hallowed blade, across his knee The tempered steel he broke. And far into the azure stream The glittering fragments threw, And sternly watched their last faint gleam Sink glimmering from his view. Whate er he felt, in tear or sigh Not there he sought relief It was not for a foeman s eye To gaze upon his grief. Eoll on, thou river glad and free, Forever pure and deep ; A stainless hand has given to thee A holy trust to keep ! THE MARCH OF THE SPOILER 161 Thou may st have treasures rich and rare Beneath thy restless wave ; But none so precious canst thou bear As that true soldier s glaive I METROPOLITAN KECOED. OLD GUARD. by one the leaves are shaken From the tree ; One by one our best are taken, And our hopes fall, hope forsaken, "When, God ! wilt thou awaken ? "When, Liberty ? Sinks the moon behind the forest Lost in cloud ; Darkly thou thy way explorest, So e en when our need is sorest, Freedom, thou our trust ignorest, In thy bloody shroud. One by one our best are taken, Hasten we 1 By our swift curse overtaken Despots might shall yet be shaken Yet th Avenger shall awaken Murdered Liberty I THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY JAMES B. RANDALL, MARYLAND. EVA sits on the ottoman there, Sits by a Psyche carved in stone, With just such a face and just such an air, As Esther upon her throne. She s sifting lint for the brave who bleed, And I watch her fingers float and flow Over the linen, as, thread by thread, It flakes to her lap like snow. A bracelet clinks on her delicate wrist, Wrought, as Cellini s were at Eome, Out of the tears of the Amethyst, And the wan Yesuvian foam. And full on the bauble-crest alway A cameo image keen and fine Glares thy impetuous knife Corday. And the lava-locks are thine ! I thought of the war- wolves on our trail, Their gaunt fangs sluiced with gouts of blood ; Till the Past, in a dead mesmeric vale, Drooped with a wizard flood Till the surly blaze through the iron bars Shot to the hearth with a pang and cry And a lank howl plunged from the Champ de Mars To the column of July OUE SHIP. 163 Till Corday sprang from the gem, I swear, And tile dove-eyed damsel I knew had flown For Eva was not on the ottoman there, By the Psyche carved in stone. She grew like a Pythoness flushed with fate, With the incantation in her gaze, A lip of scorn an arm of hate And a dirge of the "Marseillaise!" Eva, the vision was not wild, When wreaked on the tyrants of the land For you were transformed to Nemesis, child, With the dagger in your hand ! BY HENRY L. FLASH, MOBILE, ALABAMA. ALL aboard for the Port of the Free 1 And every man sprang aboard, Who had any hope in the days to be, Or any faith in the Lord. We cut her loose from the hulk where she lay, And started her out to sea, With never a chart of the perilous way Which leads to the Port of the Free. For four long years she has struggled and tossed On the foam of the fiery sea,^ And many a gallant sailor lost On the way to the Port of the Free. * Special contribution. 164 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. She has felt the force of many a blow She has struck on many a rock, But she plunges on as the echoes do After the thunder-shock. The man at the helm is brave and strong. Captain and pilot, he Sworn to guide our vessel along Till she reaches the Port of the Free. He gives no heed to crash and jar He fears not wave or wind His eyes are fixed on a beacon star With never a look behind ; For better to sink in the surging sea, On our trackless, perilous way, Than die of a moral leprosy, Moored to the hulk where we lay. But we yet shall reach the Port of the. Fiee>. Cries every man aboard, Who has any hope in the days to be, Or any faith in the Lord ! DBOWNED, DEOWNED. 165 HAMLET. BY MBS. CATHERINE A, WABFIELD, KENTUCKY. IN the dark Confederate sea Best the heroes of our race ; -O er them waves are sweeping free, And the pearls of ocean trace Temples, where the helm should be, "Worn with high heroic grace. Twas a desperate strife at best, And they perished let them rest In their silent burial place ! When our divers, dreading nought, Plunged to depths, through ocean whirls, .It was all their hope and thought, To bear back those precious pearls, Passion freighted, Beauty fraught, Such as gleam mid glowing curls, Or on baldrick and on banner, In the old heroic manner, Broidered all, by high-born girls. JBut the divers came no more From that dark Confederate sea, With its ceaseless muffled roar, And its billows sweeping free, * Contributed specially to the "Southern Amaranth." 166 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH, And the pearls were never gathered,. And the storms were never weathered. Such was Destiny s decree ! Quench the tear, and stay the sigh, Nothing now can these avail ; They who nobly strive and die, Over Fate itself prevail. Give to those, who on the shore "Wait for sires who come no more, Shelter from the surf and gale. Spread the board and trim the hearth, For the orphans of our race, Lift from weariness and dearth, Each young drooping form and face,, Light anew the olden fires Won from high heroic sires, And may God bestow his grace I BEECHMOEE, KENTUCKY, June 15th, 1867. TRIPLE-BARRED Banner ! the badge of the Free> "What coward would falter in duty to thee ! On Southerners, onward, till glory be won, And our eagles in pride greet the gleam of the sun. * This song was composed in Louisville prison. It appeared im the first number of the Camp Chase paper, and led to something like a warning of suppression, from one of the prison authorities. BITTER ALOES. 167 The daughters of Southland are kneeling in prayer, That thy folds may e er triumph in battle s fierce glare ; Then a welcome to sufferings, to prisons and scars, And Freedom s dear smile to the Stars and the Bars. Triple-barred banner ! the dread of the Foe, When thou art advancing his might is laid low, ISTo stripes now degrade thee, no symbol of shame, All pure are thy lustres, all peerless thy fame. "We weep not nor faint as the sad hours roll, They may shackle the body, they cannot the soul ; Then welcome to troubles and battles and scars, And Freedom s bright crown to the Stars and the Bars. 0, Triple-barred banner ! our joy and our pride, Though scorned by invaders, by tyrants decried, Fling forth thy proud folds to the shore and the sea, For the heart of the Southland is beating for thee ; And our brothers are arming with nerve and with will, To strike till the Northman is humbled and still ; Then a welcome to prisons and wounding and scars, And Freedom s sweet smile to the Stars and the Bars. BY A. J. BEQUIER, MOBILE, ALABAMA. As a lute which vibrates to its keenest of chords In tempestuous throes ; Or the fiery springs that empurple the rings Of the dark summer rose, 168 THE SOUTHERN AMA1UNTH. Is the spall of a na:n3, is the rush of a flame, Swift sudden and brief, "When some Ate exhumes all the showering blooms Of a poisonous grief. There are currents that flash through the spirit and crash Like the clouds on the air, While the visor is closed and the frame looks com posed As an infant at prayer ; Storms that came from a stir or a breath, or a sigh, To drag out the Past, Shapes of passion abjured, and of outrage endured Where our fortunes are cast : Blighted hopes budding white, in dim vales of de light, From impossible seeds, When we smote every clod with the plow of a god, But to gather up weeds ! Things we thought we had learned to forgive or forget, As compassionate men, Coming back with the tread of the corsleted dead To confront us again. That we feel, in our hearts, as vapidly vain As the vacantest laughter ; And we know are supremely forbidden to be, Either now or hereafter. SEMMES S SWORD. 169 Yet a word, yet a tint, yet the subtle perfume Of some exquisite flower, Yet a strain of far music, or a touch of the breeze Can awaken to power ! Thus assuring us still, turn wherever we will, The inscrutable Soul, Is not only the sovereign whole of a part But a part of a Whole. METBOPOLTTAN KECOKD. "Shame!" cried Amyas, hurling his sword into the sea. "To lose my right my right, when it was in my very grasp. Unmerci ful !" AMYAS LEIGH BJNGSLET. INTO the sea he hurled it, Into the weltering sea, The sword that had led so often The onset to the free ; And like a meteor cleaving Its path through the watery way Went down the gory falchion, To lie in the depths for aye. " Go sword, no hand of foeman Shall grasp thy peerless blade ; On the path of fire I follow With a spirit undismayed ; 170 THE S3UrH33S Atf \IUNTH. Even in the hour of anguish, With my gallant ship a wreck, Tis comfort that no captor Shall ever tread her deck. " Tis comfort that in freedom I draw my latest breath, And that with you, my brethren I drink the cup of death ; We have roved the sea together, We have proved our country s might, And we leave to the God of battles The rescuing of the right." The noble Alabama Was sinking as he stood, Her cross and stars still flying,* Her bulwark stained with blood, Down, with her band of martyrs, She settled to her doom While the coward cannon thundered, f Above her living doom But as a desert courser Bears his master from the fray, So the billows bore their hero On their foaming crest that day. Forth plunged the gallant Deerhound, To snatch him from the wave, For the hand that ruled the tempest, Was stretched above the brave. BEECHMOBE, 1866. * It was acknowledged that she sunk without striking her flag. f The Alabama was fired on while sinking. NEW YOBK NEWS. THE BROKEN MUG. 171 Ode (so called) on a late melancholy accident in the Shenandoah Valley (so called.) BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE, VIRGINIA. MY mug is broken, my heart is sad ! "What woes can fate still hold in store ? The friend I cherished a thousand days Is smashed to pieces on the floor ! Is shattered and to limbo gone, I ll see my mug no more ! Eelic it was of joyous hours. Whose golden memories still allure When coffee made of rye we drank, And gray was all the dress we wore ! "When we were paid some cents a month, But never asked for more ! In marches long by day and night, In raids, hot charges, shocks of war, Strapped on the saddle at my back, This faithful comrade still I bore This old companion, true and tried, I ll never carry more ! Bright days ! when young in heart and hope The pulse leaped at the words, " LA GLOIEE I" When the gray people cried " hot fight ! Why we have one to four !" When but to see the foeman s face Was all then asked no more 1 172 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. From the Eapidan to Gettysburg " Hard bread " behind, "sour-krout," before This friend went with the cavalry And heard the jarring cannon roar In front of Cemetery Hill Grood heavens ! how they did roar ! Then back again, the foe behind, Back to the " Old Virginia shore," Some dead and wounded left some holes In flags the sullen gray-backs bore ; This mug had made the great campaign, And we d have gone once more ! Alas ! we never went again ! The red- cross banner, slow but sure, " Fell back " we bade to sour-krout (Like the lover of Lenore) A long, sad, lingering farewell To test its joys no more. But still we fought and ate tl hard bread," Or starved, good friends our woes deplore ! And still this faithful friend remained Eiding behind me as before The friend on march and bivouac, When others were no more. How oft we drove the horsemen blue, In summer bright, or winter frore ! How oft before the Southern charge Through field and woods the blue-birds tore ! I m "harmonized," to-day, but think I d like to charge once more. THE BROKEN MUG. 173 Oh, yes ! we re all fraternal now, Purged of our sins we re clean and pure, Congress will " reconstruct " us soon But no gray people on the floor ! I m harmonized, u so called," but long To see those times once more ! Gay days ! the sun was brighter then, And we were happy, though so poor I That past comes back as I behold My shattered friend upon the floor, My splintered, useless, ruined mug. From which I ll drink no more ! How many lips I ll love for aye, While heart and memory endure, Have touched this broken cup, and laughed, How they did laugh, in days of yore 1 Those days we d call " a beauteous dream " If they had been no more ! Dear comrades, dead this many a day ! I saw you weltering in your gore, After those days, amid the pines . On the Kappahannock shore ! When the joy of life was much to me, But your warm hearts were more Yours was the grand, heroic nerve That laughs amid the storms of war Souls that " love much " your native land Who fought and died therefor ! You gave your youth, your brains, your arms, Your blood vou had no more. 174 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. You lived and died true to your flag ! And now your wounds are healed but sore Are many hearts that think of you Where you have "gone before," Peace, comrade ! God bound up those forms They are " whole " forevermore ! Those lips this broken vessel touched, His, too ! the man s we all adore That cavalier of cavaliers, Whose voice will ring no more Whose plume will float amid the storm Of battle nevermore ! Not on this idle page I write That name of names shrined in the core Of every heart ! peace ! foolish pen, Hush ! words so cold and poor ! His sword is rust ; the blue eyes dust, His bugle sounds no more. Yet even here write this : He charged As Rupert in the years before, And when his stern, hard work was done His griefs, joys, battles o er His mighty spirit rode the storm, And led his men once more. He lies beneath his native sod Where violets spring or frost is hoar, He recks not charging squadrons watch His raven plume no more ! That smile we ll see, that voice we ll hear, That hand we ll touch no more ! \ OF THE THE BROKEN MUG. - 175 My foolish mirth is quenched in tears ; Poor fragments strewed upon the floor, You are a type of nobler things That find their use no more Things glorious once, now trodden down, That make us smile no more ! Of courage, pride, high hopes, stout hearts Hard, stubborn nerve, devotion pure, Beating his wings against the bars, The prisoned eagle tried to soar ! Outmatched o erwhelmed, we struggled still, Bread failed we fought no more ! Lies in the dust the shattered staff That bore aloft on sea and shore That blazing flag, amid the storm ! And none are now so poor, So poor to do it reverence, JSTow, when it flames no more ! But it is glorious in the dust, Sacred till Time shall be no more : Spare it, fierce editors, your scorn The dread " Kebellion s " o er ! Furl the great flag, hide cross and star, Thrust into darkness star and bar, But look ! across the ages far It flames fore verm ore 1 NEW YORK NEWS. 176 THE SOUTHEEN AMARANTH. BY MOLLIE E. MOOEE, TEXAS. $ THERE is a radiant beauty on the hills, The year before us walks with added bloom r But ah ! tis but the hectic flush that lights The pale consumptive to his early tomb ; The dying glory that plays around the day When that which made it bright hath fled away I A mistiness breeds in the air the swell Of east winds slowly weaving autumn s pall, "With dirge-like sadness wanders up the dell, And red leaves from the maple branches fall "With scarce a sound ! Tis strange, mysterious rest. Hath nature bound the Lotus to her breast ? But hark ! a long and mellow cadence wakes The echoes from their rocks ! how clear and high Among the rounded hills its gladness breaks, And floats like incense toward the vaulted sky ! It is the harvest anthem ! a triumph tone, It rises like the swelling notes of old, That welcomed Ceres to her golden throne, When through the crowded streets the chariots rolled. It is the laborer s chorus, for the reign Of plenty hath begun the golden grain I MINDING THE GAP. 177 How cheeks are flushed with triumph, as the fields Bow to our feet with riches ! How the eyes Grow full with gladness as they yield Their ready treasures ! How hearts arise To join with gladness in the mellow chime " The harvest time the glorious harvest time !" It is the harvest, and the gathered corn Is piled in yellow heaps about the field, And homely wagons from the break of morn Until the sun glows like a crimson shield In the far West, go staggering homeward bound, And with the dry husks strew the trampled ground It is the harvest, and an hour ago, I sat with half-closed eyes beside the " spring," And listened idly to its dreamy flow, And heard afar the gay and ceaseless ring Of song and labor from the harvesters Heard faint and careless as a sleeper hears. My little brother came with bounding step, And bent him low beside the shaded stream, And from the fountain drank with eager lip While I, half-rousing from my dream, Asked where he d spent this still September day, Chasing the wrens, or on the hill at play ? Backward he tossed his golden head, and threw A glance disdainful on my idle hands, And with a proud light in his eye of blue, Answered, as deep his bare feet in the sands He thrust, and waved his baby hand in scorn, 11 Ah, no ! down at the cornfield since the morn I ve been minding the gap I" ITS THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. " Minding the gap !" My former dream was gneo, Another in its place ! I saw a scene As fair as e er an autumn sun shone on Down by a meadow, large, and smooth and green Two little barefoot boys, sturdy and strong, And fair, here in the sun the whole day long, Lay on the curling grass. Minding the gap 1* Minding the gap ! And years swept by, Like moments, I beheld those boys again And patriot hearts within their breasts beat high, And on their breasts was set the seal of men, And guns were on their shoulders, and they trod Back and forth, with measured step, upon tlip sod Near where our army slept, Minding the gap ! Minding the gap ! My brothers, will you guard The open places where a foe might creep A mortal foe ! mind those other gaps The open places of the heart my brothers, Watch over them ! The open places of the heart the gaps Made by the ruthless hand of Doubt and Care I Could we but keep, like holy sentinels, Innocence and Faith forever guarding there Ah ! how much of woe and shame would flee, Affrighted back from their blest purity ! * Our town readers will have to be told, that at harvest time in the rural districts, a length or two of i ence is let down to allow the wag ons to pass to and fro. To keep cattle out, the children are set to "Minding the Gap." This has given our sweet young poetess a text for one of her finest gems. EDITOR HOUSTON TELEGRAPH. FAREWELL TO GALYESTON. 179 No gloom or sadness from the outer world, With feet unholy then would wander in, To grasp the golden treasures of the soul, And bear them forth to sorrow and to sin ! The heart s proud fields ! its harvests full and fair, Innocence and love, could we but keep them there, Minding the gap ! BY COLONEL A. M. HOBBY, TEXAS. Inscribed to to Miss Sallie B. Br annum. QUEEN City of the Gulf ! and must it be That I shall say farewell to scenes like thine ? More lovely still they seem, as all I see May never gladden more these eyes of mine I But Memory will not all these joys resign, But backward turn to lighten coming care, Amid thy blooming gardens lovingly, Inhale the sweetness of the evening air, Mellowed into softness by day s declining glare. There is a mildness in the zephyr s breath That floats voluptuously soft and warm, That speaks not to the flowers of chill or death ; Nor brilliant skies like thine give birth to storm. All that can please in climate, or can form 180 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Our happiness, by Nature s generous hand Bestowed, is native here the Pilgrim saith ; The fever d cheek by cooling breezes fann d, While swiftly purple health the swelling veins ex pand. Here Spring through blushing skies first points her flight, Veil d in fleecy clouds, waved on by golden hours, Old Winter draws apace at face so bright, And vengeful breathes a chill along the flowers, Till Earth is painted bright, as twere the showers Dropp d gaudy bloom, adorning home and vale, While pallid buds grow crimson in the light ; Spring spreads her garments over hill and dale, And leaves her fragrant breath upon the scented gale. But thou art changed, bright Ocean-girdled Queen ! And sadly changed, since first I trod thy walks. Where wit and Wealth, and Beauty once were seen Reigns solitude, or soldier idly stalks And of thy homeless exiled children talks Who fondly thinking of thy sun-lit shore, In joy forget that rivers roll between, And dream that thou art charming as of yore Ah! when will Time and Peace thy faded bloom re store ? Thy homes are desolate, and silence deep Broods undisturbed within thy splendid halls, While restless bats in endless circles sweep, And spiders spread their nets along thy walls ; The winds as spirit unto spirit calls FAREWELL TO GALVESTON. 181 In whispers soft, or moan ings fiercely loud Through vineless lattice midnight revels keep ; Thy spires still proudly rise amidst the cloud, Ch-and symbols of thy people s strength and hopes unbow d. Nor tuneless do these spires cleave the air, But iron tongues send out their sacred sound, Holy and pure, inviting all to prayer From vast encampments silent spread around ; Man feels that this is consecrated ground, And yields obedience to his Maker s laws, Asks in the blessing of His love some share ; Communing thus, deep consolation draws, .As holy men invoke God s blessing on our cause. And shall thy sons be passed unnoticed here, Whose deeds of valor are a nation s pride ; "Who marched to meet the invading foe, ere Yet the first shock of battle came, and side By side with Texas brothers fought and died ? Brave heroes ! few, alas ! are left us now ; But for the dead still flows the incessant tear ! Queen City ! o er their honored ashes bow, For they with glorious deeds have wreathed thy beauteous brow. And Fame hath sepulchred thy mighty dead ! They sleep the long sleep that knows no waking ; Wrapp d in their gory shrouds on honor s bed, They heed not distant battle s thunder breaking, Nor feel the shuddering earth its answer making ! "Their bodies only sleep, their spirits still 182 THE SOUTHERN AMAEANTH, Kide on the breeze, where er our armies trea<? r Their mystic forms our souls with courage fill,. And add new strength to th unconquerable will. Thy glorious name is proudly linked with those Immortal names that Time can never blight, For thou wert wrested from our country s foe ; Thy galling chains struck off by valor s might A sun of splendor rose upon thy night, And with its rise the Tyrant s minions fell ! " What sound is that disturbs the night repose? * The sentry said, " Tis but the Ocean s swell, Hymning to dying year a last and long farewell. " Beneath grey-mantled skies the storm of war Is gath ring fast, in battle s grand array They sternly form beneath the Morning star, And wait those coming shadows on the bay ; The white-lipp d foe ask, trembling, "What are they I w Their thunder answers and their lightning s play Deals death ; the battle rages fierce and wild, Till darkness flies before the Morning car As Mother o er her lost but new found child Along the blushing East the New Year pleasing smiled. Old Ocean lays his head upon thy breast, His throbbing pulse denotes the lover s fears, His jealous arms around thee fondly pressed, And on thy bosom sheds his briny tears, The constant lover of a thousand years ! Though constant, ever changing is his mood 5 Tis passion s billowy strife and wild unrest ; And thou dost smile to see thyself thus wooed, To feel his great heart throb, then sighing, sink subduecL ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC. 183 But now farewell to Ocean and his bride ! Farewell, bright skies, and birds, and blooming bowers ! We feel, whate er to-morrow may betide, Our loves are thine, the memory of these hours Are linked with those who wreathed with smiles and flowers "War s iron brow, and still his care beguiles ; Here noble woman tends at suff ring s side, And like an angel o er the sick couch smiles ; Farewell ! farewell, fairest and loveliest of all Isles 1 10-wigtt* BY LAMAB FONTAINE. Company I., Second Regiment Virginia Cavalry. Written while on Picket on the banks of the Potomac, 1861 . " ALL quiet along the Potomac to-night," Except here and there a stray picket Is shot as he walks on his beat to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket. Tis nothing a private or two now and then, Will not count in the news of the battle ; Not an officer lost I only one of the men Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle. * The authorship of this poem is also claimed by a lady of Brook lyn, N. Y. 184 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. " All quiet along the Potomac, to-night," Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ; And their tents in th.e rajs of the clear autumn moon, And the light of their camp-fires-are gleaming. A tremulous sigh, as a gentle night-wind, Through the forest leaves slowly is creeping. While the stars up above with their glittering eyes, Keep guard o er the army while sleeping. There s only the sound of the lone sentry s tread, As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two on the low trundle-bed, Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack his face dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, And their mother " May Heaven defend her ! " The moon seems to shine as brightly as then That night, when the love yet unspoken, Leaped up to his lips, and when low murmured vows, Were pledged to be ever unbroken. Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling ; And gathers his gun close up to his breast, As if to keep down the heart s swelling. He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree, And his footstep is lagging and weary ; Yet onward he goes through the broad belt of light, Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. MY MARYLAND. 185 Hark ! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves ? Was it the moonlight so wondrousl j flashing ? It looked like a rifle ! " Ha ! Mary, good by !" And his life-blood is ebbing and splashing. " All quiet along the Potomac, to-night !" No sound, save the rush of the river ; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead, The pickets off duty forever ! BY JAMES E. KANDALL. THE despot s heel is on thy shore, Maryland ! His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland ! Avenge the patriotic gore, That wept o er gallant Baltimore, And be the battle-queen of yore, Maryland ! My Maryland ! Hark ! to a wandering son s appeal, Maryland ! My Mother State ! to thee I kneel, Maryland ! For life or death, for woe or weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland ! My Maryland ! 186 THE SOUTHERN AMAKAKTH. Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland ! Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland ! Eemember Carroll s sacred trust, Eemember Howard s warlike thrust And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland ! My Maryland ! Come ! tis the red dawn of the day, Maryland ! Come with thy panoplied array, Maryland ! With Ringgold s spirit for the fray, With Watson s blood at Monterey, With fearless Lowe and dashing May, Maryland ! My Maryland ! Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland ! Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, Maryland ! Come to thine own heroic throng, That stalks like Liberty along, And give a new KEY to thy song Maryland ! My Maryland ! Dear mother ! burst the tyrant s chain, Maryland ! Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland ! She meets her sisters on the plain " Sic Semper " tis the proud refrain That baffles millions back amain, Maryland ! My Maryland ! MY MARYLAND. 187 I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland ! But thou wast ever bravely meek, Maryland ! But lo ! there surges forth a shriek, From hill to hill, from creek to creek, Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland ! My Maryland I Thou wilt not yield the Yandal toll, Maryland ! Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland 1 Better the fire around thee roll, Better the blade, the shot, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland! My Maryland! I hear the distant thunder hum, Maryland ! The Old Line s bugle, fife and drum, Maryland ! She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb, Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum, She breathes, she burns, she ll come, shell come I Maryland! My Maryland! 188 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. ttt BY CHAELES DIMTTKY, LOUISIANA. OUE army lav, At break of day, A full league from the foe away. At set of sun, The battle done, "We cheered our triumph, dearly won. Not strong were we, If strength there be, In numbers only. But the free Are strong to do, "Whose hearts are true, Though many strive against the few. All right before, We marked the roar Of hostile guns that on us bore ; And here and there, The sudden blare Of fitful bugles smote the air. No idle word The quiet stirred Among us as the morning neared ; And brows were bent, As silent went Unto its post each regiment. Written specially for the " Southern Amaranth. 1 THE SERGEANT S STORY. 189 Blank broke the day, And wan and grey The drifting clouds went on their way. So sad the morn. Our colors torn, Upon the ramparts drooped forlorn ! At early sun, The vapors dun Were lifted by a nearer gun ; At stroke of nine, Auspicious sign ! The sun shone out along the line. Then loud and clear, From cannoneer And rifleman arose a cheer ; For as the grey Mists cleared away, "We saw the charging foes array. Dear Lord ! how poured The galling horde, While all our guns responsive roared I In that wild hell ]STo man could tell Who lived or died, or stood or fell To left and right, From height to height, The hungry cannon urged the fight, And in the wrack, Of battle s track Sharp cleft the rifles ceaseless crack. 190 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. So long blood-dyed, Our guns we plied ! So long the furious foe replied ! Till breast to breast Their lines we pressed, Beyond the red hill s foaming crest Then in the van, From man to man, A quickly gathering murmur ran ; From rank to rank It rose and sank, " Hurrah, boys ! Jackson s on their flank I" What fate befell,- Let story tell, When Jackson struck with shot and shelL But well we knew What work to do, When all our charging bugles blew. Our army lay At break of day A full league from the foe away. At set of sun, The battle done, We cheered our triumph, dearly won. WOVEN FANCIES. 191 BY MES. FANNY DOWNING, NOKTH CABOLINA. I SIT before my loom, to-day, And with untiring fingers ply The busy shuttle to and fro, Till lightning-like it seems to fly. And as it speeds from side to side, My fancies follow free and swift, Now, touch upon the shadowy past Now, far into the future drift. I see life s web in Fancy s loom, And watch Time s shuttle through it move, As in its warp and woof he weaves The glittering threads of human love. Feeling how dark my lot would be, If through its course no radiant ray, Of this best gift from God s own hand, His last and brightest, found its way. It is not so ! The precious boon, "With power like that of Midas old, Has grasped the threads with glowing touch, And turned the fabric all to gold ! My heart leaps up as I recount The priceless treasure of its dower, And sings for very blessedness, . Beneath their sweet, entrancing power ! * Contributed specially for the " Southern Amaranth." 192 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. The summer breeze comes rustling in, And fans my cheek with odors bland ; Eare roses blush on every spray, And beauty brightens sky and land. I feel the joy and own the spell, Yet from them sadly turn away, And see these beauties all o ercast, Subdued by winter s icy sway ; And shining on a bleak hill -side, A much-loved figure mutely stands, His manly form all bowed with cold, His musket grasped with stiff ning hands. So gladly leaving bird and flower, I sit and weave this cloth for him, But as I weave the tears fall fast, And turn the grey threads darkly dim. For ah ! my coward spirit shrinks And mocks me with a whisper loud " Weave quickly, quickly, fingers slight Perchance you weave your lover s shroud, " Perchance upon this very spot, Some ball, from foeman s rifle thrown, "Will find a deeper hold than you, Eight in the heart you call your own 1" # * * * * * A queen once labored at the loom I claim a no less royal state ! Virginia s daughters all are queens, In virtue of their mother great ! LINES AROUND PETEESBUEG. 193 Such gloomy thoughts I ll trample down, And from such fancies queen-like rouse, To think of that sweet time when Peace Shall crown with laurels all the brows Of those, who at their country s call, Left home and all that makes life blest, And with sublime unselfishness, Yielded themselves to her behest. It may be then in some grand loom Of sunny France s vine-clad land, A snowy web of glossy silk Shaped for a bridal robe may stand, While Flemish girls, with artist s touch, A veil-like woven frost-work bind, And orange-buds of Southern birth Among the laurel leaves are twined. 1862. tfc* BY SAMUEL M. DAVEES, VIRGINIA. Die Menschen sind nicht bloss Zusammen, wenn sie beisammen sind ; auch die Entfernte, der Abgeschiedene lebt uns. GOETHE. Such a sleep they sleep, the men I loved. TENNYSON. 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, 194 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Where once was all exuberant with life. Through day and night, in toil or deadly strife. If I must weep, tell me is there not Some plaintive story breathed into my ear, By spirit whispers from thy voiceless sphere, Haunting this sacred spot ? Unto my soul more sweetly eloquent Than words of love on sculptured monument, Outspeaks yon crumbling parapet, where lies, The broken gun, the idly rusting ball Mementoes of an ill-starred enterprise ! Eude altar reared for costly sacrifice ! Vast work of hero-hands left to thy fall, Where are they now that peerless brotherhood, Who marshalled there, That dreadful year, In pain and peril still undaunted stood, When death rode fiercest on the battle-storm, And earth was strewn with many a glorious form I And where are they, who, when the strife was done, With kindly greeting round the camp-fire met ; And made an hour of mirth from danger won, Eepay the day s stern toil, when the slow sun was set ? Where are they ? Let the nameless graves declare, In strange, unwonted spots now frequent seen. : Alas ! who knows how much lies buried there : What worlds of love and all that might have been ! The* rest are scattered now I know not where And life to each a new employment brings ; But still they seem to gather round me here, To whom those places were familiar things. Though sundered wide by mountain and by stream, Once brothers still a brotherhood they seem ; LINES AROUND PETERSBURG. 195 More close united, since a common woe, Hath brought to common hopes their overthrow. Brave hearts and true, in toil and danger tried, I see them still, as in those glorious years, When strong and hopeful, battling side by side, All crowned their deeds with praise, and some with tears. Tis done ! the sword is sheathed, the banner furled: ISTo sound where late the crashing missile whirled The dead alone are on the battle-plain The living, turn them to life s cares again. 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, bring them back once more. So let me often dream, As up the brightning stream Of olden Time, thought leads thee gently on, Seeking those better days, not lost, alas ! but gone ! PETEBSBUEG DAILY INDEX. 196 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY JOHN K. THOMPSON, KICHMOND, VA. [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. The rainbow overspread the eastern sky y and exactly denned the position of the Confederate army, as seen- from the Capitol at Eichmond. ] THE warm, weary day was departing the smile, Of the sunset gave token the tempest had ceased ; And the lightning yet fitfully gleamed for awhile 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 ; While their tents all the region had sprinkled with white, From river to river, o er meadows and hill ; While above them the fierce cannonade of the sky, Blazed and burst from the vapors that muffles 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 1 Broke in beauty the rainbow our host to enfold t 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 1 THE BATTLE EAINBOW. 197 For the fierce flame of war on tlie 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. "When 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 the 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 ; USTot 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. 198 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. H0&fte titeg* at BY DOWN by the valley, mid thunder and lightning; Down by the valley, mid jettings of light, Down by the deep crimsoned valley of Bichmond The twenty-five hundred moved on to the fight ; Onward, still onward, to the portals of glory, To the sepulchred chambers, yet never dismayed : Down by the deep crimsoned valley of Kichmond, Marched the bold warriors of Bodes 1 brigade. See ye the fires and flashings still leaping ? Hear ye the pelting and beating of storm ? See ye the banners of proud Alabama In front of her columns move steadily on ? Hear ye the music that gladdens each comrade. As it floats through the air amid the torrent of sounds T Hear ye the booming adown the red valley ? Carter unbuckles his swarthy old hounds. Twelfth Mississippi ! I saw your brave columns, Bush through the channel of living and dead ; Twelfth Alabama ! why weep your old war-horse,* He died as he wished, in the gear at your head ; Seven Pines, ye will tell on the pages of glory, How the blood of the South ebbed away neath the shade : How the lads of Virginia fought in the red valley, And fell in the columns of Bodes brigade. * Col. K. T. Jones. CARMEN TRIUMPHALE. 199 Fathers and mothers, ye weep for your jewels, Sisters, ye weep for your brothers in vain, Maidens ye weep for your sunny-eyed lovers, Weep, for they never will come back again I Weep ye, but know what a halo of glory Encircles each chamber of death newly made, And know ye, that victory, the shrine of the mighty, Stands forth on the banners of Kodes brigade. Daughters of Southland, come bring ye bright flowers, Weave ye a chaplet for the brow of the brave, Bring ye some emblem of Freedom and Yictory. Bring ye some emblem of Death and the Grave Bring ye some motto befitting a hero, Bring ye exotics that never will fade, Come to the deep crimsoned valley of Kichmond, And crown the young chieftain who led his brigade. BY HENKY TIMKOD. Go forth and bid the land rejoice, Yet not gladly, oh my song ! Breath softly ; as if mirth would wrong The solemn rapture of thy voice. Be nothing lightly done or said This happy day ! Our joy shall flow Accordant with the lofty woe That wails above the noble dead. 200 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Let him whose breast and brow were calm While yet the battle lay with God, Look down upon the crimson sod And gravely wear his mournful palm ; And him whose heart, still weak from fear, Beats all too gayly for the time, Know, that intemperate glee is crime "While one dead hero claims a tear. Yet go thou forth, my song ! and thrill With sober joy the troubled days ; A nation s hymn of grateful praise May not be hushed for private ill. Our foes are fallen ! Flash ye wires ! The mighty tidings far and nigh ! Ye cities ! write them on the sky In purple and in emerald fires ! They came with many a haughty boast ; Their threats were heard on every breeze ; They darkened half the neighboring seas, And swooped like vultures on the coast , False recreants in all knightly strife, Their way was wet with woman s tears ; Behind them flamed the toil of years, And bloodshed stained the sheaves of life. They fought as tyrants fight, or slaves ; Grod gave the dastards to our hands ; Their bones are bleaching on the sands, Or mouldering slow in shallow graves. FROM THE RAPIDAN. 201 What though we hear about our path The heavens with howls of vengeance rent ; The venom of their hate is spent ; "We need not heed their fangless wrath. Meantime, the stream they strove to chain, Now drinks a thousand springs, and sweeps With broadening breast, and mightier deeps, And rushes onward to the main ; While down the swelling current glides Our ship of State before the blast, With streamers poured from every mast, Her thunders roaring from her sides. Lord ! bid the frenzied tempest cease, Hang out thy rainbow on the sea ! Laugh round her, waves ! in silver glee And speed her to the ports of peace ! SOUTHERN ILLUSTRATED NEWS. WRITTEN AT THE TIME OP HOOKER S INVASION. BY MRS. C. A. WARFIELD. THEY are pouring down upon you, Gallant Lee, As streams from mountain sources Seek the sea. Tour serried lines advancing With swords and banners glancing, With horses plumed and prancing, Fast and free. 202 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Bugles blowing, banners flowing, For a nation s overthrowing Tis a wonderful outgoing Jubilee ! As came the haughty Persian, Press they on ! But we have not yet forgotten Marathon ! And through the memory passes, With all its mighty masses, The battle of Manassas Lost and won ! Bugles blowing, banners flowing For a nation s overthrowing All the North to battle going ! Back to run ! Now, God in Heaven be with you, Noble chief, For the time of your probation Waxes brief Your foemen thrice outnumber The army clad in umber, Whom no pomps of war encumber, " Light and lief" Bugles blowing, banners flowing, We take comfort in the knowing, Sometimes, after great cock-crowing, Come to grief ! May you turn the tide of battle, Dauntless Lee ! Hurling back the wreck of armies Like the sea. LINES TO LEE. 203 Your force is scant and meager, Compared to the beleaguer, But every heart is eager To be free ! Bugles blowing, banners flowing, Can make no braver showing Than the South to battle going Under thee ! Than the South the North repelling, While her mighty heart is swelling And every pulse is glowing With the fame of thy bestowing, "Robert Lee ! TO GENERAL N. B. FORREST.* BY KOSAIjIE MILLEK, MONTGOMEEY, ALA. BRAVE Forrest, like a storm-king sweeps O er the vile invader s path ; In thunders of vengeance that echo afar ; And he flashes like Freedom s orient star, Or Heaven s lightning of wrath ! And woe to the foe, When he deals the blow, For his heart is nerved anew, By the memory of those, Who in death repose, The faithful, the brave and the true. * Special Contribution. 204 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Brave Forrest, like a lion springs On the prowling vandal, who comes With demon hands and hearts so black, To desolate, pollute and sack Our firesides and our homes. With vengeful sting He s on the wing, As a torrent he rushes along ; And his warriors brave, Like old ocean s wave, Surge over the Hessian throng ! Brave Forrest, like an eagle swoops Down on the frightened prey ; With glittering sword in noon-day s blaze, And at dewy eve neath the moon-light rays, Our " war-eagle " leads the way ! Oh, twine his name With the laurel of fame, In letters unfading and bright ; Embellish with glory, Each thread of the story, That it glow with a living light I Like the comet s dash, Thro the ages twill flash Adown the dim future of Time ; And mid heroes of yore, On Eternity s shore, It will live in a record sublime ! MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA, July, 1861. THE DEVIL S DELIGHT. 205 BY JOHN K. THOMPSON. To breakfast one morning the Devil came down, By demons and vassals attended ; A headache had darkened his brow with a frown, From his orgie last night, or the weight of his crown, But his presence infernal was splendid. In a robe of red flame was Diavolo dressed, Without smutch of a cinder to soil it ; Blue blazes enveloped his throat and his chest, While the tail, tied with ribbons as blue as the vest, Completed his Majesty s toilet. No masquerade devil of earth could begin, With his counterfeit horns and his mock tail, To look like this model Original Sin, As of lava and lightning and bitters and gin, He sat and compounded a cocktail. But to give, in all conscience, the Devil his due, He seemed sorrowful rather than irate ; And his Majesty moped all the dejeuner through, With a twitch, now and then, of the ribbons of blue, And the look of a penitent pirate ; Then a smile, such as follows some capital joke Of a Dickens, a Hood, or a Jerrold, Sweet, playful, and tender, all suddenly broke O er the face of Sathanas, as turning he spoke, " Go, imp ! bring the file of the Herald /" 206 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. The paper was brought, and Old Nick ran his eye (In default of debates in the Senate) Over crimes, there were plenty, of terrible dye, Over letter and telegram, slander and lie, And the blatherskite leaders of Bennett. There were frauds in high places, official deceit ; There were sins, we ll not name them, of ladies ; There were Mexican murders, and murders in Crete, By the thousand, all manner of villainies sweet, To the Herald *s subscribers in Hades. But the numberless horrors of every degree Did not w r holly dispel his dejection ; " The Herald s a bore, I m aweary," says he ; Then uprising, he added, "What s this? TENNESSEE! By jingo ! here s Brownlow s election ! " Ho, varlet ! fill up till the beaker runs o er !" Cried the Deil, growing joyous and frisky ; A white-hot ferruginous goblet he bore, And the liquor was vitriol straight, which he swore "Was less hurtful than tangle-foot whisky. " Fill up ! let us drink," said the Father of Lies, " To the mortal whose claims are most weighty !" And a light diabolic shone out of his eyes, That made the thermometer instantly rise To fully five thousand and eighty. " I have knights of the garter and knights of the lance, Who shall surely hereafter for sin burn ; OF THE UNIVERSITY THE DEVIL S DELIGHT. 207 I have writers of history, ethics, romance, In England, America, Germany, France, And a gay little poet in Swinburne : " Reformers, who go in for infinite smash ; The widows and orphans oppressor ; D.D. s by the dozen, whose titles are trash, To be written with two little d s and a dash ; And many a Father Confessor : " And besides all the hypocrites," chuckled the Deil, " Who serve me with Ave and Credo, I have tyrants that murder, commanders that steal, Dahomey, Mouravieff, Butler, McNeil, Thad. Stevens, Joe Holt, Escobedo : " But the man of all others the most to my mind, The dearest terrestrial creature, Is the blaspheming priest and the tyrant combined, Who mocks at his Maker and curses his kind, In the garb of a Methodist preacher. " And so long as of Darkness I m absolute Prince, From his praise there shall be no deduction, Whose acts a most exquisite malice evince, And whose government furnishes excellent hints, Opportunely for HELL S EECONSTKUCTION." Then the Fiend, with a laughter no language may tell, Drained his cup, and abasing his crown low, Cried " Hip, Hip, Hurrah !" and a boisterous yell Went round till the nethermost confines of Hell Ke-echoed " Three cheers for old Brownlow !" 208 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Uto Ifiw ni THE maid who binds her warrior s sash, And smiling, all her pain dissembles The while, beneath her drooping lash, One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles Though Heaven alone records the tear, And Fame shall never know her story, Her heart has shed a drop as dear As ever dewed the field of glory ! The wife who girds her husband s sword, Mid little ones who weep and wonder ; And bravely speaks the cheering word, What though her heart be rent asunder Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear The bolts of war around him rattle, Has shed as sacred blood as e er Was poured upon the field of battle ! The mother who conceals her grief, While to her heart her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot-brow she blesses With no one but her secret God To know the pain that weighs upon her Sheds holy blood, as e er the sod Received on Freedom s field of honor ! CLOUDS IN THE WEST. 209 itt ife BY A. J. KEQUEEE, HARK I on the wind that whistles from the "West, A manly shout for instant succor comes, From men who fight outnumbered, breast to breast, With rage indented drums ! Who dare for child, wife, country stream and strand, Though but a fraction to the swaying foe, There at the flooded gate- ways of the land, To stem a torrent r s flow. To arms ! brave sons of each embattled State, Whose queenly standard is a Southern star ; Who would be free must ride the lists of Fate, On Freedom s victor car ! Forsake the field, the shop, the mart, the hum Of craven traffic for the mustering clan ; The dead themselves are pledged that you should come, And prove yourself a man. The sacred turf where first a thrilling grief Was felt, which taught you Heaven alone disposes God I can you live to see a foreign thiefj Contaminate its roses ? 210 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Blow, summoning trumpets, a compulsive stave, Through all the bounds, from Beersheba to Dan ; Come out ! come out ! who scorns to be a slave, Or claims to be a man ! Hark on the breezes whistling from the West, A manlj shout for instant succor comes, From men who fight, outnumbered breast to breast, With rage indented drums ! Who charge and cheer amid the murderous din, Where still your battle-flags unbended wave, Dying for what your fathers died to win, And you must fight to save. Ho ! shrilly fifes that stir the vales from sleep, Ho ! brazen thunders from the mountain s hoar ; The very waves are marshalling on the deep, While tempests tread the shore. Arise and swear your palm-engirdled land, Shall burial only yield a bandit foe ; Then spring upon the caitiffs, steel in hand, And strike the fatal blow. SONG OF THE FIRST VIRGINIA CAVALKY. 211 Vkt Jitti ilfsgiwm !araltt}< i MOUNT ! mount ! and away 1 Stay not to entwine Fresh garlands around Full breakers of wine ; Mount ! mount ! and away ! One cup we will drain To hearts that are true, Then spur to the plain. II. Bright wreaths may be won With sabre and spear, Than garlands with wine To the soldier more dear : And wine may be drained Of a far deeper red Tis the blood of the foe By the sharp sabre shed. III. Ring out bugle note, Ring out loud and clear, No spirit grows cold, No heart thinks of fear. On ! steady, forward With thundering tramp, Let comrades not think We loiter in the camp. 212 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH, IV. On, on, let us ride When looms the dark horde, And fierce be the charge With pistol and sword ; Give spurs to your steeds, Give nerve to each blow, Front, rear, right and left, Where er stands the foe. v. Bj homesteads and sires, By graves where they rest, By hopes that are dear By lips we have pressed, The wrongs we have borne In vengeance recall Strike ! strike ! let us swear Strike ! strike ! for them all. VI Up I up ! with your banner Fair hands wrought each fold Sic SEMPER, the legend, Proud, honored and old. Up ! up ! with your banner I That foemen may see A doom comes to them, To us, Victory ! SOOTHEEN ILLUSTRATED NEWS. STUART. 213 A BALLAD. PLACE A Company Guard of Stuart s Cavalry. TIME NlgU, etc. BY PAUL H. HAYNE. A CUP of your potent " mountain dew, 7 By the camp-fire s ruddy light ! 3Jet us drink to a spirit as leal and true, As ever drew blade in fight, And dashed on the tyrants lines of steel, For God and a Nation s Eight. II. By Heaven ! it seems that his very name Embodies a thought of fire ! It strikes on the ear with a sense of flame, While the life-blood boundeth higher, And the pulses burn and the brain expands In the glow of a wild desire. III. .Hark ! in the day dawn s misty grey, Our bugles are ringing loud, And hot for the bliss of the coming fray, On the war.-steeds fierce and proud, We list for the word that shall launch us forth, Like bolts from the mountain cloud ! 214: THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. IY. "We list for the word and it comes at length In a strain so mighty and clear, That we rise to the sound with an added strength, And our souls grow glad to hear And a stir like the breath of the brooding storm. ; Thrills through us from van to rear. Y. Then with the roar of the whirlwind freed, "We rush by a secret way, And merry on sabre and hemlet and steed Do the autumn sunbeams play ; And the Devil must sharpen his keenest wits To rescue " his own " to day ! YI Oh ! ye who dwell in the fertile vales, Of the pleasant land of Penn Who feast on the fat of her fruitful dales How little ye dream or ken, That the Southern Murat has bared his brand,, The Stuart rides again ! YII Close up ! close up 1 we have travelled long I. But a jolly night s in store A night of feasting and wit, and song In yon Yankee town before ! Ho ! Sergeant, spur to the front in haste, And knock at the Mayor s door ! YIII. Behold ! he comes with a ghostlike grace, And his knee-joints out of tune, And the cold, cold sweat rolls down his face STUART. 215 In the liglit of the rising moon ; And his palsied tongue, like an ancient crone s, But mutters a hollow croon ! IX. He could not speak ! but his buxom dame, With a trembling daughter nigh, Shrieked out, " Oh ! honor their virgin fame, Pass the poor maidens by." "Whereon with a grievous heave and throb, She paused in her speech to cry ! x. Hise up ! we leave to the churlish brood Our vengeance is seeking now. The fame which springs from the brutal mood, That crimsons a woman s brow ; For sons are we of a courtly race, And bound by a knightly vow I XL Rise up 1 we war with the strong alone 1 For when was the caitiff found To sport with an outraged woman s moan, Where Southern trumpets sound Though the blood of the martyred fair makes red, The wastes of the Southern ground : XII. ******* Enough ! while I speak of the past, my lad, There s coming (hush ! lean thee near !) There s coming a raid that shall drive them mad, And cover their land with fear, And you and I, by the blessing of God, Aye ! you and I shall be there ! 216 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. XIIL One cup one more of your "mountain dew," Though the camp-fire pales its light Let us drink to a spirit as leal and true As ever drew blade in fight, And dashed on the Tyrant s ranks of steel, For God and his Peopled Eight ! SOUTHEEN ILLUSTRATED NEWS. On the departure of General Joseph E. Johnston for his West ern Command. BY JOHN K. THOMPSON. ONCE more to the breach for the Land of the West ! And a leader we give of our bravest and best, Of his State and his army the pride : Hope shines like the plume of Navarre on his crest, And gleams in the glaive at his side. For his courage is keen and his honor is bright As the trusty Toledo he wears to the fight, Newly wrought in the forges of Spain, And this weapon * like all he has brandished for Right Will never be dimmed by a stain. He leaves the loved soil of Virginia behind, Where the dust of his fathers is fitly enshrined, * General Johnston carries with him a beautiful sword recently presented to him, bearing the mark of the Koyal Manufactory of To ledo. 1862. A WORD WITH THE WEST. 217 "Where lie the fresh fields of his fame ; Where the murmurous Pines as they sway in the wind Seem ever to whisper his name. The Johnstons have always borne wings on their spurs, And their motto a noble distinction confers, " Ever Ready " for friend for or foe "With a patriot s fervor the sentiment stirs The large, manly heart, of our JOE. "We recall that a former bold chief of the clan Fell, bravely defending the West, in the van, On Shiloh s illustrous day ; And with reason we reckon our Johnston the man The dark bloody debt to repay. There is much to be done ; if not glory to seek, There s a j ust and a terrible vengeance to wreak, For crimes of a terrible dye, While the plaint of the helpless, the wail of the weak In a chorus, rise up to the sky. For the wolf of the North we once drove to his den, That quailed in affright neath the stern glance of men, With his pack has turned to the spoil ; Then come from the hamlet, the mountain and glen, And drive him again from the soil. Brave-born Tennesseans so loyal, so true. Who have hunted the beast in your highlands, of you Our leader had never a doubt ; You will troop by the thousand the chase to renew The day that his bugles ring out. 218 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. But ye " Hunters " so famed " of Kentucky " of yore, Where, where are the rifles that kept from your door The wolf and the robber as well ? Of a truth you have never been laggard before, To deal with a savage so fell. Has the love you once bore to your country grown cold? Has the fire on the altar died out ? Do you hold Your lives than your freedom more dear ? Can you shamefully barter your birthright for gold, Or basely take counsel of fear ? We will not believe it Kentucky, the land Of a Clay will not tamely submit to the brand That disgraces the dastard, the slave ; The hour of redemption draws nigh is at-hand Her own sons her own honor shall save ! Mighty men of Missouri, come forth to the call, With the rush of your rivers when the tempests appal And the torrents their sources unseal, And this be the watchword of one and of all " Kemember the butcher, MCNEIL !" Then once more to the breach for the Land of the West! Strike home for your hearths for the lips you love best Follow on where your leader you see ; One flash of his sword, when the foe is hard prest, And the Land of the West shall be Free 1 Richmond, December 1st, 1862. SOUTHERN ILLUSTRATED NEWS. THE GOOD OLD CAUSE. 219 BY JOHN D. PHEIAN, MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA. I HUZZA ! huzza ! for the Good Old Cause, Tis a stirring sound to hear, For it tells of rights and liberties Our fathers bought so dear ; It brings up the Jersey prison ship, The spot where Warren fell, And the scaffold which echoes the dying words, Of murdered Hayne s farewell. II. The Good Old Cause ! it is still the same Though age upon age may roll ; Tis the cause of the right against the wrong, Burning in each generous soul ; Tis the cause of all who claim to live As freemen on Freedom s sod ; Of the widow, who wails her husband and sons r By Tyranny s heel down-trod. III. And whoever burns with a holy zeal, To behold his country free, And would sooner see her baptized in blood Than to bend the suppliant knee, Must agree to follow her White-cross flag, Where the storms of battle roll, A soldier a SOLDIER ! with arms in his hands. And the love of the South in his soul ! 220 THE SOUTHEKN AMARANTH. IY. Come one, come all, at your country s call, Let none remain behind, But those too young and those too old, The feeble, the halt, the blind ; Let every man, whether rich or poor, Who can carry a knapsack or gun, Repair to the ranks of our Southern host, Till the cause of the South is won. V. But the son of the South, if such there be, Who will shrink from the contest now, From a love of ease, or the lust of gain, Or through fear of the Yankee foe, May his neighbors shrink from his proffered hand As though it was soiled for aye. And may every woman turn her cheek From his craven lips away ; May his country s curse be on his head, And may no man ever see A gentle bride by the traitor s side, Or children about his knee. YI. Huzza ! huzza ! for the Good Old Cause, Tis a stirring sound to hear ; For it tells of rights and liberties, Our fathers bought so dear ; It summons our braves from their bloody graves, To receive our fond applause, And bids us tread in the steps of those Who died in the Good Old Cause. THE SOLDIER S PRAYER. 221 BY MBS. MARGARET J. PBESTON, VIRGINIA. FATHER! fold thine arms of pity, Bound us as we meekly bow ; Never have we kneeled bsfore Thee, "With such burdened hearts as now 1 Joy has been our constant portion, And if ill must now befall, With a filial acquiescence, "We would thank thee for it all In the path of present duty, With thy hand to lean upon, Questioning not the hidden future, May we walk serenely on. For this holy, happy home-love, Purest bliss that crowns my life, For these tender, trusting children, For this fondest, faithful wife, Here I pour my full thanksgiving ; And, when heart is torn from heart, Be our sweetest tryst- word " Mizpah" Watch betwixt us while we part 1 222 THE SOUTHERN AMAKANTH. And if never round this altar, We should kneel as heretofore, If these arms in benediction, Fold mj precious ones no more, Thou who in her direst anguish, Sooth dst thy mother s lonely lot, In thy still unchanged compassion, Son of man ! forsake them not ! FEOM BEECHENBKOOK. BY MES. MABGAHET J. PRESTON, YIEGINIA. THE Chaplain advances with reverend face, Where lies a felled oak, he has chosen his place ; On the stump of an ash-tree the Bible he lays, And they bow on the grass as he silently prays. ##-5f##### " Underneath thine open sky, Father, as we bend the knee, May we feel thy presence nigh, Nothing twixt our souls and thee I We are weary, cares and woes Lay their weight on every breast,* And each heart before thee knows, That it sighs for inward rest THE CHAPLAIN S PRATER. 223 Thou canst lift this weight away, Thou canst bid these sigliings cease ; Thou canst walk these waves and saj To their restless tossings " Peace 1" We are tempted : snares abound, Sin its treacherous meshes weaves ; And temptations strew us round, Thicker than the Autumn leaves. Midst these perils, mark our path, Thou who art the life, the way ; Eend each fatal wile that hath Power to lead our souls away. Prince of Peace ! we follow Thee I Plant thy banner in our sight ; Let thy shadowy legions be Guards around our tents to-night" PEOM BEECHENBKOOK. A HYMN. Respectfully Dedicated to Mrs. Joshua Peterkin, of Richmond. BY S. FRANCIS CAMERON, MARYLAND. OH, let the cry awaken, From every hero-band, And still the prayer re-echo, God bless the Southern land. 224 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. With heart and voice awaken, The ministrel strains of yore ,* Till Southern name and glory Kesound from shore to shore. Then let the cry awaken From every hero-band, And still the prayer re-echo, God bless our Southern land. While hostile bands and danger JSTow threaten our fair land, May God s strong arm protect us, And his most mighty hand. Above the Southern banner, May Fortune s star long shine, And round our sacred ensign, The olive branches twine. Then let, etc. God save the hero spirits That battle for the right : Clothe them with heav nly armor With more than human might. Give .them thy Holy Spirit, To bear our cross on high, That through its sacred merit, May win the victory. Then let, etc. THE SNOW. 225 BY WALKF.B MEKIWETHEB BELL. THE clouds are hanging heavy and low, Heavy and cold and grey ; And softly, softly falls the snow Through all the weary day. My soul is wrapped in misty clouds, Heavy and cold as they ; For I know they are weaving dreary shrouds, For the soldiers far away. I watch through tears that from mine eyes As silent and softly flow, As the light flakes falling from the skies, And drifting as they go. I think how white in my Love s dark hair They lie, and oh ! how chill On the heart that beats for me, ah ! where ? And oh I is it beating still ? I will not bear the doubt, the dread, Cease, cease ye cruel clouds, To hang like palls above my head, Weaving your pallid shrouds ; Or, if beneath their folds at rest, My only love must lie ; Heap all your white drifts on my breast, And chill me till I die I * Special Contribution. 226 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. tto rnil wtow nw wm "Much Yet Remains Unsung." BY DAN B. LUCAS, YIEGINIA. 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 taxed 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. IN THE LAND WHERE WE WERE DREAMING. 227 Our sleep grew troubled, and our dream 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 Victoiy 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 fanced 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 the stars Yowed they would bear it through a hundred wars, In the land where we were dreaming. A hero came amongst us while 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. 228 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. 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, Eome felt herself secure and free, So "Kichmond 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 her 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. O TEMPORE, O MOKES. 229 Wake ! dreamers, wake ! none but the sleeping fail ; Our cause being just, must in the end prevail ; Once, this Thyestean banquet o er Frown strong, the few who bide the hour, Shall rise and hurl the drunken guests from power, In the land where we were dreaming ! NEW YOBK NEWS. BY J. DICKSON BEUNS, M. D., SOUTH CABOLINA. * f GEEAT PAN is dead ! ; so cried an airy tongue To one, who, drifting down Calabria s shore, Heard the last knell in starry midnight rung, Of the old Oracles, dumb forevermore. A low wail ran along the shuddering deep, And as, far off, its naming accents died, The awe-struck sailors, startled from their sleep, Gazed, called aloud ; no answering voice replied ; Nor ever will the angry Gods have fled, Closed are the temples, mute are all the shrines, The fires are quenched, Dodona s growth is dead, The Sibyl s leaves are scattered to the winds. ."No mystic sentence will they bear again, Which, sagely spelled, might ward a nation s doom ; But we have left us still some god-like men, And some great voices pleading from the tomb. OF THE UNIVERSITY 230 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. If we would heed them, they might save us yet r Call up some gleams of manhood in our breatsv Truth, valor, justice, teach us to forget, In a grand cause our selfish interests But we have fallen on evil times indeed ; When public faith is but the common shame, And private morals held an idiot s creed, And old-world honesty an empty name. And lust and greed and gain are all our arts ! The simple lessons which our fathers taught Are scorned and jeered at ; in our sordid marts, We sell the faith for which they toiled and fought. Each jostling each in the mad strife for gold, The weaker trampled by the unrecking throng, Friends, honor, country lost, betrayed or sold, And lying blasphemies on every tongue. Cant for religion, sounding words for truth, Fraud leads to fortune, gelt for guilt atones, No care for hoary age or tender youth, For widows tears or helpless orphans groans. The people rage and work their own wild will, They stone the prophets, drag their highest down,, And as they smite, with savage folly still Smile at their work ; those dead eyes wear no frown. The sage of " Drainfield "* tills a barren soil, And reaps no harvest where he sowed the seed, He has but exile for long years of toil ; Nor voice in counsel, though his children bleed. * The country seat of H. Barnwell Khett. DIXIE. 231 And never more shall " Kedcliff s " * oaks rejoice, Now bowed with grief above their master s bier ; Faction and party stilled that mighty voice, Which yej; could teach us wisdom, could we hear. And " "Woodland s "f harp is mute : the gray old man Broods by his lonely hearth and weaves no song ; Or, if he feings, the note is sad and wan, Like the pale face of one who s suffered long. So all earth s teachers have been overborne, By the coarse crowd, and fainting droop or die ; They bear the cross, their bleeding brows the thorn, And ever hear the clamor " Crucify !" Oh for a man with god-like heart and brain ! A god in stature, with a god s great will, And fitted to the time, that not in vain, Be all the blood we ve spilt, and yet must spill. Oh, brothers ! friends ! shake off the Circean spell ! Eouse to the dangers of impending fate ! Grasp your keen swords, and all may yet be well More gain, more pelf, and it will be too late ! CHABLESTON MEECUEY. * The homestead of W. Gilmore Simms, destroyed by Sherman s Army, f The homestead of Jas. H. Hammond. 232 THE SOUTHERN AMAEANTH. BY GEN. ALBEKT PIKE, AEKANSAS. SOUTHRONS, hear your country call you I Up ! lest worse than death befall you ! To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! in Dixie ! Lo ! all beacon fires are lighted, Let our hearts be now united ! To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! in Dixie I Advance the flag of Dixie ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! For Dixie s land we ll take our stand, To live or die for Dixie ! To arms ! To arms ! And conquer peace for Dixie I To arms ! To arms ! And conqueer peace for Dixie 1 IL Hear the Northern thunders mutter ! Northern flags in South wind flutter ! To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! in Dixie I Send them back your fierce defiance ! Stamp upon the cursed alliance ! To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! in Dixie ! Advance the flag of Dixie ! etc. DIXIE. 233 III. Fear no danger ! shun no labor ! Lift up rifle, pike and sabre ! . To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! in Dixie ! Shoulder pressing close to shoulder, Let the odds make each heart bolder ! To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! in Dixie ! Advance the flag of Dixie ! etc. IY. How the South s great heart rejoices, At your cannon s ringing voices ; To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! in Dixie ! For faith betrayed and pledges broken, Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken I To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! in Dixie ! Advance the flag of Dixie ! etc. V. Strong as lions, swift as eagles Back to their kennels hunt these beagles ! To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! in Dixie ! Cut the unequal bonds asunder ! Let them hence each other plunder ! To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! in Dixie 1 Advance the flag of Dixie ! etc. YL Swear upon your country s altar, Never to give up or falter ; To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! in Dixie ! Till the spoilers are defeated, Till the Lord s work is completed. To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! in Dixie ! Advance the flag of Dixie ! etc. 234 THE SOUTHEBN AMARANTH. VII. Halt not till our Federation, Secures among -earth s Powers its station 1 To arms ! to arms ! to arms I in Dixie 1 Then at peace and crowned with glory, Hear your children tell the story ! To arms ! to arms ! to arms I in Dixie ! Advance the flag of Dixie ! etc. VIII. If the loved ones weep in sadness, Victory soon shall bring them gladness. To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! in Dixie f Exultant pride soon banish sorrow ; Smiles chase tears away to-morrow, To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! in Dixie ! Advance the flag of Dixie I etc. BY MBS. FANNY DOWNING, NOETH CAROLINA. CREATED by a nation s glee, With jest and song and revelry. We sang it in our early pride, Throughout our Southern borders wide, While from ten thousand throats rang out A promise in one glorious shout, " To live and die for Dixie." DIXIE. 235 How well that promise was redeemed, Is witnessed by each field where gleamed Victorious like the crest of Mars The banner of the Stars and Bars ! The cannons lay our warriors low We fill the ranks and onward go " To live and die for Dixie." To die for Dixie ! Oh, how blest, Are those who early went to rest, Nor knew the future s awful store, But deemed the cause they fought for, sure As heaven itself, and so laid down The cross of earth for glory s crown, And nobly died for Dixie. To live for Dixie harder part To stay the hand to still the heart To seal the lips enshroud the past To have no future all o ercast To knit life s broken threads again, And keep her memory pure from stain This is to live for Dixie. Beloved Land ! beloved Sono- O Your thrilling power shall last as long Enshrined within each Southern soul As Time s eternal ages roll ; Made holier by the test of years, Baptized with our country s tears God and the right for Dixie I THE LAND WE LOVE. 236 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. toll to WALKER MEBIWETHEE BELL. AKOUSE thee, Kentucky ! the graves of thy sires Are pressed by the foot of the foe. Has terror, or avarice smothered the fires That were wont in thy bosom to glow ? Arise ! shall the voice of Virginia in vain Call aloud to the child of her pride ? Thou shouldst rush like a storm over mountain and plain, To conquer or die at her side ! Alas ! shall the rifles thy forefathers bore, Hang rusted and cold in their place ? Has the spirit that kindled their bosoms of yore, Forever deserted their race ? Awake ! there is scorn in the beautiful eyes Of thy maidens, and mothers and wives, 41 Have we given " they ask, with indignant surprise, " To cowards our love and our lives?" Awake, and redeem us ! Arise in your might, Or forfeit to manhood the claim ! The arm that refuses to strike for the right, Let it wither and perish in shame. THE OLD RIFLEMAN. 237 And tie who would hasten to cringe and to crawl. Neath the foot of the ruthless invader ; A spirit so base it were flattering to call A craven, a serf, or a traitor ! BY DK. FRANK O. TICKNOB, GEORGIA. Now bring me out my buckskin suit! My pouch and powder too ! "We ll see if seventy-six can shoot, As sixteen used to do. Old Bess ! we ve kept our barrels bright, Our trigger quick and true ! As far, if net as fine a sight As long ago, we drew ! And pick me out a trusty flint ! A real white and blue, Perhaps twill win the other tint Before the hunt is through ! Give boys your brass percussion caps ! Old " shut-pan " suits as well ! There s something in the sparks, perhaps There s something in the smell. We ve seen the red coat Briton bleed ! The red-skin Indian too ! We ve never thought to draw a bead On Yankee-doodle doo ! 238 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. But Bessie ! bless your dear old heart I Those days are mostly done ; And now we must revive the art Of shooting on the run ! o If Doodle must be meddling, why, There s only this to do Select the black spot in his eye, And let the daylight through ! And if he doesn t like the way That Bess presents the view, He ll maybe change his mind, and stay Where the good Doodles do ! Where Lincoln lives ! The man you know Who kissed the Testament ; To keep the Constitution ? No ! To keep the Government! We ll hunt for Lincoln, Bess I old tool, And take him half and half ; We ll aim to hit him, if a fool, And miss him, if a calf ! We ll teach these shot-gun boys the tracks By which a war is won ; Especially how Seventy-six Took Tories on the run. THE RIFLEMAN S FANCY SHOT. 239 " EIFFLEMAIST, shoot me a fancy shot, Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette ; .Elng me a bell on the glittering spot, That shines on his breast like an amulet." * l Ah, captain ! here goes for a fine-drawn bead ; There s music around when my barrel s in tune." Crack ! went the rifle ; the messenger sped, And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon. " Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood ; A button, a loop, or that luminous patch That leams in the moon like a diamond stud." " Oh, captain ! I staggered and sunk in my track. When I gazed on the face of yon fallen vidette ; .For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back, That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet " But I snatched off the trinket this locket of gold, An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, Of a beautiful lady in bridal array !" " Ha ! rifleman ! fling me the locket tis she ! My brother s young bride ; and the fallen dragoon Was her husband. Hush soldier ! twas heaven s de cree, We must bury him there, by the light of the moon. 240 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. " But hark ! the far bugles their warning unite ; War is a virtue, and weakness a sin ; There s lurking and lopping around us to-night : Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in 1" BY MKS. CATHEBINE A. WABITELD, KENTUCKY. YES, we have failed ! That iron word Drove never home its bolt of fate More ruthlessly, than when it barred All egress from the prison gate, That closed upon our sad estate, And left us powerless in the dark, A world s reproach a nation s mark. Failed ? Aye so grievously that pain Is put aside in pure amaze, As, at our weary length of chain, And steel- girt path we stand agaze, With dark distrust of coming days, And marvel if we be the same. Who lit the Christian world to flame. The same who owned this lovely land Now lying waste a tyrant s spoil, And saw its stately dwellings stand Mid waving fields of fertile soil, OUK FAILURE. 241 Enriched by swarthy sons of toil I The princes of a proud estate Now stricken, sterile, desolate The same ? Where be our legions now, Where stand our homes so fair and proud ? Where rings each step where beams each brow, Of those we loved, our martyred crowd, To home and country nobly vowed, Of sons and brothers where the hope That wreathed our splendid horoscope ? And where the banner which on high We flung with all the pride of race, An emblem from our Southern sky, Snatched from its Southern dwelling place ; Our deeds of arms to gild and grace, The flag our breezes loved to toss, Our ark of strength the Southern Cross ? All buried in one common grave, Are these, the glories of the past, Let the swamp cypress o er it wave, The bittern sail, the eagle rave, The simoom sweep, the midnight blast, Make requiem meet ; the die is cast, And we who counted ill the cost, Who ventured all, have staked and lost What marvel, then, if in the burst, Of an incredulous despair, When fate has seemed to do its worst, 24:2 THE SOUTHEBN AMARANTH. And all prove false that seemed so fair, Such words as these should mock the air, And that, mistrusting fate and fame, We question, "Are we still the same?" Oh, morbid doubt 1 Oh, words of wind I I cast ye forth as little worth. Forgive them, Omnipresent mind ! Forgive them, brothers bound on earth To one poor heritage of death, And hear conviction s voice proclaim The potent truth, "We are the same." The same who faced the Northern hosts, With dauntless hearts and shining spears ; The same who laughed to scorn their boasts, And prove the few the many s peers, And did in days the work of years ; O erwhelmed not conquered overrun, And desolated, and undone. Yet still the same, the very same, Believe it tremble and believe Oh, tyrants who with sword and flame, Advanced to slaughter and bereave ; Then staid to torture and deceive ; Are we, who, with a faith sublime, Endure our fate abide our time, NEW YOKE NEWS. SONG OF THE SOUTH. 243 0g 01 ill SING us a song of the South we love ! ! Minstrel sing us a song ! * Sad as that of a mateless dove, But make it not, Minstrel, long ! On his viol a master s * mother breathed The latest sigh from her mouth, Oh ! thus on thy harp in cypress wreathed, Catch thou from the breath of the South ! But, Minstrel, if thou hast ever an art, To teach men to forget, Eeserve that strain for some other heart, For the South would remember yet. But touch not for her one vaunting chord, Her sons would but weep at thy strain ; The dream of her pride was dispelled by the sword, Her laurels encircle the slain ! The citron shall bloom in the orange grove, And the muscadine twine as of y ore, But her dear darling dead, embalmed in her love, Shall return for their fruit never more ! Then tuning jthy harp o er the fresh turned sod, Neath a bough where the rain-crow sings, Oatch the breath of the South, like the spirit of God, Poured over thy trembling strings ! * Paganini. 244 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Minstrel. The song of the South, with her free flag furled * My heart grows mute at the prayer ! For the anthem would trouble the heart of the world Like the song of a fallen star ! And they should remember that twas not alone, Gainst the odds of her Northern foe ; That she struck when the star of her victory shone, Or sank in her hour of woe ! But the Teuton and Celt, from the Shannon and Khine r And the Northman from Ottowa s banks, Came to barter their blood at Mammon s red shrine, And filled up the enemy s ranks. Kildare and O Neal, these SONS would ye call, Who for gold in recreant bands, The chains which are rusting in Erin s soul Have fettered on Southern hands ! Let the victory there, to the North remain, And the same to the Foreign Powers ; The South has enough, amid all her pain For the honor and glory are ours ! So I ll hang my harp o er the fresh turned sod, On a bough where the rain-crow sings, Till the breath of the South, like the spirit of God, Pour over my trembling strings. THE LAND WE LOVE. HANASSAS. 245 BY CATHERINE M. WAEFIELD. THEY liave met at last as storm clouds Meet in heaven, And the Northmen back and bleeding Have been driven : And their thunders have been stilled, And their leaders crushed or killed, And their ranks with terror thrilled, Kent and riven ! Xike the leaves of Yallambrosa, They are lying ; In the moonlight, in the midnight, Dead and dying : Like those leaves before the gale, iSwept their legions wild and pale ; "While the host that made them quail Stood defying. When aloft in morning sunlight, Flags were flaunted, And " swift vengeance on the rebel " Proudly vaunted : Xiittle did they think that night Should close upon their shameful night, And rebels, victors in the fight, Stand undaunted 246 THE SOUTHEKN AMARANTH. But peace to those who perished In our passes I Light be the earth above them, Green the grasses f Long shall Northmen rue the day, When they met our stern array, And shrunk from battle s wild affray At Manassas 1 a BY PAUL H. HAYNE. HERE, lonely, wounded and apart, From out my casement s glimmering round r , I watch the wayward bluebirds dart Across yon flowery ground ; How sweet the prospect ! and how fair The balmy peace of earth and air. But, lowering over fields afar, A red cloud breaks with sulphurous breath^. And well I know what gory Star, Is regnant in his house of Death ; Yet faint the conflict s gathering roll, To the fierce tempest in my soul. I, who the foremost ranks had led, To strike for cherished home and land Groan idly on this torturing bed, SCENE IN A COUNTRY HOSPITAL. 247 With broken frame and palsied hand, So nerveless, tis a task to scare, The insects fluttering round my hair : 0, God I for one brief hour again, Of that grim joy my spirit knew, When tyrant life blood poured like rain, And sabres flashed and trumpets blew, One hour to smile, or smitten die On the wild breast of Victory 1 It may not be ! my pulses beat Too feebly and my heart is chill, Death, like a thief with stealthy feet Draws nigh to work his ruthless will, Hope, Honor, Glory pass me by But He stands near with mocking eye ! Aye ! smooth the couch ! pour out the draught, That, haply, for a season s space, Hath power to charm his fatal shaft, And warn the death-damps off my face, A blest reprieve ! a wondrous boon 1 Thank Heaven ! this all ends with me soon. SOUTHERN ILLUSTRATED NEWS. 248 THE SOUTHEEN AMARANTH. WEITTEN IN FORT WARREN, IN 1864. " O patria amada ! a ti suspira y llora, Esta en su carcel alma peregrina Llevada errando de uuo en otro instante." I. I AM a captive on a hostile shore, Caged like the falcon from its native skies, And doom d my agonizing grief to pour In futile lamentations, tears, and sighs, And feed the gaze of fools whom I despise. Daily they taunt my heart with bitter sneers They prate of Liberty deeds great and wise, And fill the air with patriotic, cheers, While human shackles clank around their listless ears. IL Hark ! hear ye not, mid those triumphal cries, The clanking of the freeman s heavy chains ? His smothered curses from the sore heart rise ? The loud indignant beating of his veins, Stirred by the lava-hell that in him reigns ? Hearest him not writhe against the dark decree lhat gyves the soul for it just hate maintains? The impetuous mshings of his heart when he Watches the eagle soar into the heavens, all free ? IIL My soul appall d shrinks from Hypocrisy, And whatsoever bears deception s name. Under thy banner Heaven-born Liberty THE SOUTHERN PATEIOT s LAMENT. 249 The fiends of war inflated with acclaim, Revel in crime, and virtue put to shame They slaughter babes and wives without a cause, And holding up their reeking blades exclaim * A victory!" Demolish homes, rights, laws, And o er the wreck send up to Heaven their proud hurrahs. IY. I am a captive while my country bleeds : And Retribution loudly cries to Heaven, And for the presence of her warriors pleads, Till from her far the ruthless foe is driven Oh God ! oh God ! Hast Thou my country given To direful fate ? Must I lie coop d up here, While she by desecrating hands is riven ; The sobs of Age, and Beauty s shrieks of fear, Like funeral knells afar are tolling in my ear ? Y. And thou ethereal one ! My spirit s bride, My star r my sun, my universe the beam That lit my youthful feet mid ways untried ; Within me woke each high ambitious scheme, And here dost hover o er me in my dream, Pressing thy lips to mine until I feel Our quick hearts ebbing into one soft stream Of holy love ah ! who will guard thy weal, And from thy breast avert the dark marauder s steel YL Oh, my distracted country ! child of pain And anarchy I thee shall I see no more Till thou art struggling in the tyrant s chain, 250 THE SOUTHERN AMAKANTH. Oppressed by insult and by sorrow sore, And steeping in thy children s sacred gore ! Must thy bright star of glory set for aye ? Must thou become the poet s Mecca ? Lore For antiquaries ? Temple of decay ? Wilt thou survive no more, my country s Natal Day ? YIL Spirit of Jackson, Zollicoffer, rise ! Let not the foe your cherished land enslave ! Let her not fall, a bloody sacrifice ! And thou, immortal Polk ! who from the grave Mayest inspire with victory the brave Heroes who fell in Shenandoah s vale And ye who fought by Shiloh s golden wave, Who from Manassas drove the spoiler pale ; Hear, in the spirit land, my country s doleful wail I OLD GUAED. BY HENKT TIMBOD. Ho ! woodman of the mountain side I Ho ! dwellers in the vales ! Ho ! ye, that by the chafing tide, Have roughened in the gales ! Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot, Lay by the bloodless spade ; Let desk, and case, and counter rot, And burn your books of trade I A CRY TO AEMS. 251 The despot roves your fairest lands, And till he flies, or fears, Your fields must grow but armed bands Your sheaves be sheaves of spears I Give up to mildew and to rust The useless tools of gain ; And feed your country s sacred dust With floods of crimson rain I Come with the weapons at your call With musket, pike or knife ; He wields the deadliest blade of all, Who lightest holds his life. The arm that drives its untaught blows, With all a patriot s scorn, Might brain a tyrant with a rose, Or stab him with a thorn, Does any falter ? let him turn To some brave maiden s eyes, And catch the holy fires that burn In those sublunar skies. Oh ! co aid you like your women feel r And in their spirit march, A day might see your lines of steel Beneath the victor s arch. What hope, God ! would not grow When thoughts like these give cheer ? The lily calmly braves the storm And shall the palm-tree fear? No I rather let its branches court 252 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. The rack that sweeps the plain ; And from the lily s regal port, Learn how to breast the strain. Ho ! woodsmen of the mountain side, Ho ! dwellers in the vales ! Ho ! ye that by the roaring tide, Have roughened in the gales ! Come ! flocking gayly to the fight, From forest, hill, and lake ! We battle for our country s right, And for the lily s sake ! met. VO ^~~s BY MOINA. (REV. ABEAM J. EYAN. ) FOKTH from its scabbard, pure and bright, Flashed the sword of Lee ! Far in the front of the deadly fight, High o er the brave in the cause of right, Its stainless sheen like a beacon light, Led us to victory. Out of its scabbard, where full long It slumbered peacefully Roused from its rest by the battle song, Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong, Guarding the right, and avenging the wrong, Gleamed the sword of Lee. THE SWOKD OF ROBERT LEE. 253 Forth from its scabbard, high, in air, Beneath Virginia s sky And they who saw it gleaming there, And knew who bore it, knelt to swear That where that sword led, they would dare To follow or to die. Out of its scabbard ! Never hand Waved sword from stain as free, Nor purer sword led braver band, Nor braver bled for a brighter land, Nor brighter land had a cause as grand, Nor cause, a chief like Lee ! Forth from its scabbard ! how we prayed That sword might victor be ! And when our triumph was delayed, And many a heart grew sore afraid, "We still hoped on while gleamed the blade Of noble Kobert Lee I Forth from its scabbard ! all in vain ! Forth flashed the sword of Lee ! Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain, Defeated, yet without a stain, Proudly and peacefully. BICHMOND ENQUIRES. 254: THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. ifwttk To General ana Mrs. B. F. Clieatliam, given at their Marriage Banquet, March Ut?i, 1866. BY GEN. S. B. BTJCKNER, KENTUCKY. HERE S a health to the brave and the fair, To glory and bravery combined, To charms so attractive and rare, To the laurel and myrtle entwined. Though man in his pride may proclaim, He reigns in his grandeur alone, His deeds can but win a bright name, For woman to wear as her own. Thus the name oar Hero achieved, On the fields of his glory and fame, Is by Beauty from Knighthood received As a tribute she justly may claim. But the laurels which chivalry won, Never nourished so freshly as now, When thus wreathed in bright garlands upon Her fair and majestic young brow. And amid the green laurel s bright hue, How modest the violet shows, While her virtues his pathway will strew, With the fragrance and bloom of the rose. THE WAR CHRISTIAN S THANKSGIVING. 255 Then a health to the Fair and the Brave ; They will live in our hearts and in story, Adorning the name which he gave, In the blending of Beauty and Glory. Respectfully Dedicated to the- War Clergy of the United States, Bishops, Priests, and Deacons. BY S, TEACKLE WALLIS, BALTTMOBE. " Cursed be lie that doeth the work of the Lord negligently, and cursed be he that keepeth back his sword from blood." JEB- EMTAH, xiviii, 10. GOD of battles ! once again, With banner, trump and drum, And garments in Thy wine-press dyed, To give Thee thanks, we come. No goats or bullocks garlanded, Unto thine altars go With brother s blood, by brothers shed, Our glad libations flow. From pest-house and from dungeon foul, Where, maimed and torn they die ; From gory trench and charnel-house, Where, heap on heap they lie ; 256 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. In every groan that yields a soul, Each shriek a heart that rends With every breath of tainted air Our homage, Lord, ascends. We thank Thee for the sabre s gash, The cannon s havoc wild, We bless Thee for the widow s tears, The want that starves her child ; We give Thee praise that Thou hast lit The torch and fanned the flame ; That lust and rapine hunt their prey, Kind Father ! in Thy name : That, for the songs of idle joy, False angels sang of yore, Thou sendest War on Earth, 111 Will To Men, forevermore. We know that wisdom, truth, and right, To us and ours are given That Thou hast clothed us with Thy wrath, To do the work of Heaven. We know that plains and cities waste, Are pleasant in Thine eyes ; Thou lov st a hearthstone desolate, Thou lov st a mourner s cries. Let not our weakness fall below The measure of Thy will, And while the press hath wine to bleed, Oh ! tread it with us still. A PRAYER FOR PEACE. 257 Teach us to hate as Jesus taught Fond fools of yore to love Grant us thy vengeance as our own, Thy pity, hide above. Teach us to turn with reeking hands The pages of Thy word, And hail the blessed curses there, On them that sheathe the sword. "Where er we tread may deserts spring, Till none are left to slay ; And when the last red drop is shed, "We ll kneel again and pray I FOKT WAKBEN, 1863. BY S. TEACKLE WALLIS. PEACE ! Peace ! God of our fathers, grant us Peace ! Unto our cry of anguish and despair Give ear and pity 1 From the lonely homes Where widowed beggary and orphaned woe Fill their poor urns with tears ; from trampled plains, The blood of them who should have garnered it Calling to thee ; from fields of carnage, where The foul-beaked vultures, sated, flap their wings O er crowded corpses, that but yesterday Bore hearts of brothers, beating high with love 258 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And common hopes and pride, all blasted now ; Father of mercies ! not alone from these Our prayers and wail are lifted. Not alone Upon the battle s seared and desolate track, Nor with the sword and flame, is it, O God, That thou hast smitten us. Around our hearths And in the crowded streets and busy marts, Where echo whispers not the far-off strife That slays our loved ones ; in the solemn halls Of safe and quiet counsel nay, beneath The temple roofs that we have reared to Thee, And mid their rising incense God of Peace ! The curse of war is on us. Greed and hate Hungering for gold and blood : ambition, bred Of passionate vanity and sordid lusts, Mad with the base desire of tyrannous sway Over men s souls and thoughts, have set their price On human hecatombs, and sell and buy Their sons and brothers for the shameless. Priests, With white, anointed, supplicating hands, From Sabbath unto Sabbath clasped to Thee, Burn, in their tingling pulses, to fling down Thy censers and Thy cross, to clutch the throats Of kinsmen, by whose cradles they were born, Or grasp the hand of Herod, and go forth Till Kachel hath no children left to slay. The very name of Jesxis, writ upon Thy shrines, beneath the spotless, outstretched wings Of Thine Almighty dove, is wrapt and hid With bloody battle-flags, and from the spires That rise above them, angry banners flout The skies to which they point, amid the clang Of rolling war-songs tuned to mock Thy praise. A PRAYER FOR PEACE. 259 All things once prized and honored are forgot ; The freedom that we worshipped next to Thee ; The manhood that was freedom s spear and shield ; The proud, true heart ; the brave, outspoken word, "Which might be stifled, but could never wear The guise, whate er the profit, of a lie ; All these are gone, and in their stead have come The vices of the miser and the slave Scorning no shame that bringeth gold or power, Knowing no love, or faith, or reverence, Or sympathy, or tie, or aim, or hope, Save as begun in self, and ending there. With vipers such as these, oh ! blessed God ! Scourge us no longer ! Send us down, once more, Some shining seraph in Thy glory glad, To wake the midnight of our sorrowing With tidings of good will and peace to men ; And if that star, that through the darkness led Earth s wisdom then, guide not our folly now, Oh, be the lightning Thine Evangelist, With all its fiery, forked tongues, to speak The unanswerable message of Thy will. Peace ! Peace ! God of our fathers, grant us Peace Peace in our hearts and at Thine altars ; Peace On the red waters and their blighted shores ; Peace for the leaguered cities, and the hosts That watch and bleed around them and within, Peace for the homeless and the fatherless ; Peace for the captive on his weary way, And for the mad crowds who jeer his helplessness ; For them that suffer, them that do the wrong, 260 THE SOUTHERN AMAKANTH. Sinning and sinned against. God ! for all ; For a distracted, torn, and bleeding land Speed the glad tidings ! Give us, give us Peace I AHA ! a song for the trumpet s tongue I For the bugle to sing before us, When our gleaming guns, like clarions Shall thunder in battle chorus ! Where the rifles ring, where the bullets sing, Where the black bombs whistle o er us, With rolling wheel and rattling peal They ll thunder in battle chorus ! With the cannon s flash, and the cannon s crash With the cannon s roar and rattle, Let Freedom s sons with their shouting guns- Go down to their country s battle. Their brassy throats shall learn the notes That make old tyrants quiver, Till the war is done, or each TYKREL gun, Grows cold with our hearts forever ! Where the laurel waves o er our brother s graven Who have gone to their rest before us, Here s a requiem shall sound for them And thunder in battle chorus ! With the cannon s flash, and the cannon s crash With the cannon s roar and rattle, Let Freedom s sons with their shouting guns. Go down to their country s battle. MUSIC IN CAMP. 261 By the light that lies in our southern skies ; By the spirits that watch above us ; JBy the gentle hands in our summer lands, And the gentle hearts that love us ! Our fathers faith let us keep till death Their fame in its cloudless splendor As men who stand for their mother-land, And die but never surrender ! With the cannon s flash, and the cannon s crash, With the cannon s roar and rattle, Let Freedom s sons, with their shouting guns, Go down to their country s battle ! n BY JOHN K. THOMPSON. Two armies covered hill and plain, Where Rappahannock s waters Ban, deeply crimsoned with the stain Of battle s recent slaughters. The summer clouds lay pitched like tents In meads of heavenly azure ; And each dread gun of the elements Slept in its hid embrasure. The breeze so softly blew it made No forest leaf to quiver, And the smoke of the random cannonade Rolled slowly from the river. 262 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And now, where circling lulls looked down, With cannon grimly planted, O er listless camp and silent town The golden sunset slanted. When on the fervid air there came A strain now rich, now tender ; The music seemed itself aflame With day s departing splendor. A Federal band, which, eve and morn,, Played measures brave and nimble, Had just struck up, with flute and horn And lively clash of cymbal. Down flocked the soldiers to the banks, Till, margined by its pebbles, One wooded shore was blue with " Yanks," And one was gray with " Kebels." Then all was still, and then the band, With movement light and tricksy, Made stream and forest, hill and strand, Reverberate with " Dixie." The conscious stream with burnished Went proudly o er its pebbles, But thrilled throughout its deepest flow With yelling of the Eebels. Again a pause, and then again The trumpets pealed sonorous, And " Yankee Doodle" was the strain. To which the shore gave chorus. MUSIC IN CAMP. 263 The laughing ripple shoreward flew, To kiss the shining pebbles ; Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue Defiance to the Kebels. And yet once more the bugles sang Above the stormy riot ; No shout upon the evening rang There reigned a holy quiet. The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood Poured o er the glistening pebbles ; All silent now the Yankees stood, And silent stood the Rebels. No unresponsive soul had heard That plaintive note s appealing, So deeply " Home, Sweet Home" had stirred The hidden founts of feeling. Or Blue or Gray, the soldier sees, As by the wand of fairy, The cottage neath the live-oak trees, The cabin by the prairie. Or cold or warm, his native skies Bend in their beauty o er him ; . Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, His loved ones stand before him. As fades the iris after rain In April s tearful weather, The vision vanished, as the strain And daylight died together. 264 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. But memory, waked by music s art, Expressed in simplest numbers, Subdued the sternest Yankee s heart, Made light the Kebel s slumbers. And fair the form of music shines, That bright, celestial creature, Who still, mid war s embattled lines, Gave this one touch of Nature. BY MOINA. (FATHER BTAN. ) OLD trees, old trees, in your nry stic gloom There is many a warrior laid, There is many a lonely and nameless tomb Sheltered beneath your shade. Old trees, old trees, without pomp or prayer, "We buried the brave and the true ; We fired a volley and left them there In peace, old trees, with you. Old trees, old trees, keep watch and ward, Over each grass-grown bed, Tis a glory, old trees, to shrine and guard The dust of the sunny land s dead. Old trees, old trees, wail a requiem hymn On the slumberers at your feet, Let the dirge sound on mid your shadows dim- Your voices, old trees, are sweet. BEYOND THE POTOMAC. 265 Old trees, old trees, we sliall pass away Like the leaves ye yearly shed ; But you like sentinels still must stay, Oh, trees ! to watch our dead. BY PAUL H. HAYNE. THEY slept on the field which their valor had won ! But arose with the first early blush of the sun, For they knew that a great deed remained to be done, When they passed o er the Kiver : They arose with the sun, and caught life from his light Those giants of courage, those Anaks in fight And they laughed out aloud in the joy of their might, Marching swift for the Kiver. On ! on ! like the rushing of storms through the hills On 1 on ! with a tramp that is firm as their wills And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and thrills, At the thought of the Kiver ! Oh ! the sheen of their swords ! the fierce gleam of their eyes! It seemed as on earth a new sunlight would rise, And king-like, flash up to the sun in the skies, O er their path to the Kiver. 266 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. But their banners, shot-scarred, and all darkened with gore, On a strong wind of morning streamed wildly before, Like wings of Death angels swept fast to the shore, The green shore of the Eiver. As they march, from the hill-side, the hamlet, the stream, Gaunt throngs whom the Foemen had manacled, teem, Like men just aroused from some terrible dream, To pass over the Eiver. They behold the broad Banners, blood-darkened, yet fair, And a moment dissolves the last spell of despair, While a peal as of victory swells on the air, Rolling out to the River. And that cry, with a thousand strange echoings spread, Till the ashes of heroes were thrilled in their bed, And the deep voice of passion surged up from the dead, Aye ! press on to the River ! On ! on ! like the rushing of storms through the hills r On ! on ! with a tramp that is firm as their wills ; And the one heart, of thousands grows buoyant, and thrills, As they pause by the River. Then the wan face of Maryland, haggard and worn, At this sight lost the touch of its aspect forlorn, And she turned on the Foemen full statured in scorn, Pointing stern to the River. PROMISE OF SPRING. 267 And Potomac flowed calmly, scarce heaving her breast, "With her low lying billows all bright in the West, For the hand of the Lord lulled the waters to rest Of the fair rolling Eiver. Passed ! passed ! the glad thousands march safe through the tide. (Hark, Despot ! and hear the deep knell of your pride, Kinging wierd-like and wild, pealing up from the side Of the calm flowing Eiver !) Neath a blow swift and mighty the Tyrant shall fall, Vain ! vain ! to his gods swells a desolate call, For his grave has been hollowed, and woven his pall, Since they passed o er the Eiver I Wfflfe* 01 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 glancing every wing That tells its flight in song that shall long survive the flight, 268 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. 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 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 I But, alas for us, no more Shall the coming hour restore 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 hisssing 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 1 SOUTH CAEOLTNTAN. THE BAKEFOOTED BOYS. 269 BY the sword of St. Michael, The old dragon through ! By David his sling, And the giant he slew ! Let us write us a rhyme, As a record to tell, How the South on a time Stormed the ramparts of Hell, With her barefooted boys ! Had the South in her border A hero to spare, Or a heart at her altar, Lo I its life-blood was there ! And the black battle grime Might never disguise The smile of the South, On the lips and the eyes, Of her barefooted boys I There s a grandeur in fight, And a terror the while, But none like the light Of that terrible smile The smile of the South, When the storm cloud unrolls, The lightning that loosens The wrath in the souls Of her barefooted boys I 270 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. It withered the foe, Like the red light that runs Through the dead forest leaves, And he fled from his guns ! Grew the smile to a laugh, Rose the laugh to a yell, As the iron-clad hoofs Clattered back into hell, From our barefooted boys ! BY MILLIE MAYFIELD. * WE come ! we come, for Death or Life, For the Grave or Yictory ! We come to the broad Bed Sea of strife, Where the black flag waveth free ! We come as Men, to do or die, ISTor feel that the lot is hard, When our Hero calls and our battle-cry Is " On, to Beauregard !" Up, craven, up ! tis no time for ease, When the crimson war-tide rolls To our very doors up, up, for these Are times to try men s souls ! The purple gore calls from the sod Of our martyred brothers graves, * Dedicated to the Crescent Regiment of New Orleans, Col. M. J. Smith. WE COME ! WE COME ! 271 And raise a red right hand to God To guard our avenging braves, And unto the last bright drop that thrills The depths of the Southern heart, We must battle for our sunny hills, For the freedom of our Mart For all that Honor claims, or Eight For Country, Love, and Home ! Shout on the tramping steeds of Might Our cry " We come ! we come !" And let our path through the serried ranks Be the fierce tornado s track, That bursts from the torrid s fervid banks And scatters destruction black ! For the hot life leaping in the veins Of our young Confederacy, Must break for aye the galling chains Of dark-brow d Treachery. On ! on ! tis our gallant chieftain calls, (He must not call in vain,) For aid to guard his homestead walls Our Hero of the Plain ! We come ! we come to do or die, Nor feel that the lot is hard : " God and our Eights !" be our battle-cry, And, " On, to Beauregard 1" 272 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. " "f will *jrajj." BY WALKEB MEBIWETHEB BELL. IT is not always dark ! When night s black shades are round us chill And drear ; High up in heaven the sweet voice of the lark Sings, dawn is near. When clouds are grey and sad, The rainbow builds its bright arch suddenly, Making the heart with its fair promise glad Of joy that is to be. Oh, beautiful land that lies Prone in the dust, despairing, fettered, dumb, A voice from out the future prophecies Of glory yet to come. The sleepless eye of God is open still ; His voice shall one day say to thee arise ! Thy noble blood poured out like water, will Be no vain sacrifice. Look up ! Thy foot shall be Upon the prone neck of thine enemy yet ; Those eyes now dimmed by bitter tears shall see His star of glory set. Those captive hands shall shake Their shackles off, as Sampson did of old, From his strong limbs the flaxen fetters break Wherewith they sought to hold BEAUREGARD S APPEAL. 273 Be not afraid, for God Doth still remember mercy in his wrath ; Bow now thy soul in patience neath the rod Upon thy shadowed path. The clouds that darkly loom Shall shine a pillared splendor in thy sight, To light thy steps to victory, and consume The oppressor in his might BY PAUL H. HATNE. YEA ! since the need is bitter, Take down those sacred bells, "Whose music speaks of our hallowed joys, And passionate farewells ! But ere ye fall dismantled, Eing out, deep bells ! once more : And pour on the waves of the passing wind The symphonies of yore. Let the latest born be welcomed By pealings glad and long, Let the latest dead in the churchyard bed Be laid with solemn song. And the bells above them throbbing, Should sound in mournful tone, As if in the grief for a human death, They prophesied their own. 274 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. "Who says tis a desecration To strip the Temple Towers, And invest the metal of peaceful notes With death-compelling powers ? A truce to cant and folly ! With Faith itself at stake, Shall we heed the cry of the shallow fool, Or pause for the bigot s sake ? Then crush the struggling sorrow ! Feed high your furnace fires, That shall mould into deep-mouthed guns of bronze, The bells from a hundred spires. Methinks no common vengeance No transient war eclipse Will follow the awful thunder burst From their " adamantine lips." A cause like ours is holy, And useth holy things ; And over the storm of a righteous strife, May shine the Angel s wings. Where er our duty leads us, The Grace of God is there, And the lurid shrine of War may hold The Eucharist of prayer. MELT THE BELLS. 275 BY F. G. EOCKETT. MELT the bells, melt the bells ! Still the tinkling on the plain, And transmute the evening chimes, Into war s resounding rhymes, That the invader may be slain By the bells. Melt the bells, melt the bells, That for years have called to prayer, And, instead, the cannon s roar, Shall resound the valleys o er, That the foe may catch despair From the bells. Melt the bells, melt the bells, Though it cost a tear to part With the music they have made, "Where the friends we love are laid, With pale cheek and silent heart, Neath the bells. Melt the bells, melt the bells, Into cannon vast and grim, And the foe shall feel the ire, From their heaving lungs of fire, And we ll put our trust in Him And the bells. 276 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Melt the bells, melt the bells, And when foes no more attack And the lightning cloud of war Shall roll thunderless and far, "We will melt the cannon back Into bells. Melt the bells, melt the bells, And they ll peal a sweeter chime, And remind of ail the brave Who have sunk to glory s grave, And will sleep through coming time Keath the bells. BY JOHN C. MCLEMOKE, SOUTH CAROLINA.* 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 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 ; * Mortally wounded at the battle of Seven Pines. WHAT THE VILLAGE BELL SAID. 277 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 wept while my tones pealed loud ; And more gently I rung when the lily-white dame, Your mother, lay in her shroud ; And I sang with 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 I 35ut a base foe comes from the region 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 charge the song The bells have rung To the thunder s harsher tone. Then take me down from the village church, Where in peace so long I have hung ; 278 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. But I charge you by all the loved and ^Remember the songs I have sung. Eemember the mound Of holy ground, "WTiere 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, "V 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 his holy dust BY HENRY TIMEOD, SOUTH CAROLINA. WHILE I recline At ease beneath This immemorial pine, Small sphere ! By dusky fingers brought this morning here,, And shown with boastful smiles THE COTTON BOLL. 279 I turn thy cloven sheath, Through which the soft white fibres peer, That with their gossamer bands, Unite, like love, the sea-divided lands, And slowly, thread by thread, Draw forth the folded strands, Than which the trembling line, By whose frail help yon startled spider fled Down the tall spear grass from his swinging bed, Is scarce more fine ; And as the tangled skein Unravels in my hands, Betwixt me and the noonday light A veil seems lifted, and for miles and miles The landscape broadens on my sight, As in the little boll there lurked a spell Like that which in the ocean shell, With mystic sound, Breaks down the narrow walls that hem us round, And turns some city land Into the restless main, With all its capes and isles I Yonder bird, Which floats, as if at rest. In those blue tracts above the thunder, where No vapors cloud the stainless air, And never sound is heard, Unless at such rare time When, from the City of the Blest, Kings down some golden chime, Sees not from his high place So vast a cirque of summer space 280 THE SOUTHERN AMARA.NTH. As widens round me in one mighty field, Which, rimmed by seas and sands, Doth hail its earliest daylight in the beams Of gray Atlantic dawns ; And, broad as realms made up of many lands, Is lost afar Behind the crimson hills and purple lawns, Of sunset, among the plains which roll their streams Against the Evening Star ! And lo ! To the remotest point of sight, Although I gaze upon no waste of snow, The endless field is white ; And the whole landscape glows, For many a shining league away, With such accumulated light As Polar lands would flash beneath a tropic day I Nor lack there (for the vision grows, And the small charm within my hands More potent even than the fabled one Which oped whatever golden mystery Lay hid in fairy wood or magic vale The curious ointment of the Arabian tale Beyond all mortal sense Doth stretch my sight s horizon, and I see Beneath its simple influence, As if, with Uriel s crown, I stood in some great temple of the Sun, And looked as Uriel down,) .N"or lack there pastures rich, and fields all green With all the common gifts of God, For temperate airs and torrid sheen Weave Edens of the sod. OF THE TJNIVEKSITY THE COTTON BOKLT^ 281 Through lands which look one billowy sea of gold, Broad rivers wind their devious ways ; A hundred isles in their embraces fold A hundred luminous bays ; .And through yon purple haze Vast mountains lift their plumed peaks cloud crowned And, save where up their sides the ploughman creeps, An unknown forest girds them grandly round, In whose dark shades a future navy sleeps ! Ye stars, which though unseen, yet with me gaze Upon this loveliest fragment of the earth ! "Thou sun, that kindlest all thy gentlest rays Above it, as to light a favorite hearth ! Ye clouds, that in your temples in the "West See nothing brighter than its humblest flowers 1 And you, ye winds, that on the ocean s breast Are kissed to coolness ere ye reach its bowers ! Bear witness with me in my song of praise, And tell the world, that since the world began, No fairer land hath fired a poet s lays, Or given a home to man ! But these are charms already widely blown 1 His be the meed whose pencil s trace Hath touched our very swamps with grace, And round whose tuneful way All Southern laurels bloom ; The poet of " The Woodlands " unto whom Alike are known The flute s low breathing and the trumpet s tone, And the soft west- wind s sighs ; But who shall utter all the debt, O Land ! wherein all powers are met 282 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. That bind a people s heart, The world doth owe th.ee at this day, And which it never can repay, Yet scarcely deigns to own ! Where sleeps the poet who shall fitly sing The source wherefrom doth spring The mighty commerce which, confined To the mean channels of no selfish marts, Goes out to every shore Of this broad earth, and throngs the sea with ships That bear no thunders ; hushes hungry lips In alien lands ; Joins with a delicate web remotest strands ; And gladdening rich and poor, Doth gild Parisian domes, Or feed the cottage smoke of English homes, And only bounds its blessings by mankind ! In offices like these thy mission lies, My country ! and it shall not end As long as rain shall fall and Heaven bend In blue above thee ; though thy foes be hard And cruel as their weapons, it shall guard Thy hearthstones as a bulwark ; make thee great In white and bloodless state ; And, haply, as the years increase Still working through its humbler reach With that large wisdom which the ages teach Revive the half-dead dream of universal peace 1 As men who labor in that mine Of Cornwall, hollowed out beneath the bed Of ocean, when the storm rolls overhead, THE COTTON BOLL. 283 Hear the dull booming of the world of brine Above them, and the 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 arched 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 Eesigned, 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 1 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 West ern seas. 28tt THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY JAMES B. EANDALL. You shudder as you think upon The carnage of the grim report, The desolation when we won The inner trenches of the fort. But there are deeds you may not know, That scourge the pulses into strife ; Dark memories of deathless woe Pointing the bayonet and knife. The house is ashes where I dwelt, Beyond the mighty inland sea ; The tombstones shattered where I knelt, By that old church at Point Coupee. The Yankee fiends that came with fire, Camped on the consecrated sod, And trampled in the dust and mire The Holy Eucharist of Grod ! The spot where darling mother sleeps, Beneath the glimpse of yon sad moon, Is crushed, with splintered marble heaps, To stall the horse of some dragoon. God ! when I ponder that black day It makes my frantic spirit wince ; I marched with Longstreet far away, But have beheld the ravage since. AT FOKT PILLOW. 285 The tears are hot upon my face, When thinking what black fate befell The only sister of our race A thing too horrible to tell. They say, that ere her senses fled, She rescue of her brothers cried ; Then feebly bowed her stricken head, Too pure to live thus so she died I Two of those brothers heard no plea ; With their proud hearts forever still- John, shrouded by the Tennessee, And Arthur there at Malvern Hill. But I have heard it everywhere, Vibrating like a passing knell ; Tis as perpetual as the air, And solemn as a funeral bell. By scorched lagoon and murky swamp My wrath was never in the lurch ; I ve killed the picket in the camp, And many a pilot on his perch. "With steady rifle, sharpened brand, A week ago upon my steed, With Forrest and his warrior band, I made the hell-hounds writhe and bleed. You should have seen our leader go Upon the battle s burning marge, Swooping like falcon on the foe, Heading the gray-lines iron charge. 286 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. All outcasts, from our ruined marts, We heard th undying serpent hiss, And in the desert of our hearts The fatal spell of Nemesis. The Southern yell rang loud and high The moment that we thundered in, Smiting the demons hip and thigh, Cleaving them to the very chin. My right arm bared for fiercer play, The left one held the rein in slack ; In all the fury of the fray I sought the white man, not the black. The dabbled clots of brain and gore Across the swirling sabres ran ; To me each brutal vision bore The front of one accursed man. Throbbing along the frenzied vein My blood seemed kindling into song The death dirge of the sacred slain, The slogan of immortal wrong. It glared athwart the dripping glaves, It blazed in each avenging eye The thought of desecrated graves, And some lone sister s desperate cry I AT FORT PILLOW. 287 BY W. WINSTON FONTAINE, VIRGINIA. WHEN golden lines of evening light Along the tops of mountains rest ; When summer winds in gentle flight With pinions touch the river s breast ; When curling smoke in fleecy wreaths Winds upward through the lucid air ; When westward some white cloud-sail heaves, There often walks a lady fair. A lady fair, with pensive eyes With trace of pain upon her brow. The lilies hear grief-laden sighs ; The waters listen in their flow. The lady walks the river shore , Her vision in the distance dwells. Why lonely mourns the maiden pure ? Her chamber wall the secret tells 1 A portrait hangs upon the wall : A soldier in Confederate gray A youthful figure, graceful, tall A face the foeman shuns in fray ; A face the infant fondly loves ; An eye, wherein the eagle s glance Melts in the softness of the dove s, And all the warmer feelings dance. There hangs above the warrior s head A knightly sword with many a dent, 288 A colonel s sash, a banner red, By sabre-stroke and bullet rent. Upon the banner s silken fold Gleams, first Manassas field of fame And many another battle bold, - With Petersburg s illustrious name. When on the April s breeze there rang The cheering note of bugle wild, A score of sabres fiercely sang And proud Virginia lost a child ! They bore him to his plighted bride Upon the flag her fingers wrought ! No braver son for freedom died ! In holier cause no warrior fought I KICHMOND ENQUEREB. "It is ordered that hereafter when any female shall, by word, ge& ture, or movement, insult or show contempt for any officer or sol dier of the United States, she shatt be regarded and held liable to be treated as a looman of the town, plying her vocation. " BUTLEK S ORDER. AT NEW OELEANS. BY PAUL H. HAYNE. AYE ! drop the treacherous mask ! throw by The cloak which veiled thine instincts fell, Stand forth thou base incarnate lie, Stamped with the signet brand of hell At last we view thee as thou art A trickster with a demon s heart THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. 289 Off with disguise ! no quarter now To rebel honor ! thou wouldst strike Hot blushes up the anguished brow, And murder fame and strength alike. Beware ! ten million s hearts aflame Will burn with hate thou canst not tame. We know thee now ! we know thy race I Thy dreadful purpose stands revealed, Naked before the nation s face ! Comrades ! let mercy s fount be sealed, While the black banner courts the wind And cursed be he who lags behind ! ! soldiers, husbands, brothers, sires I Think that each stalwart blow ye give Shall quench the rage of lustful fires, And bid your glorious women live Pure from a wrong whose tainted breath Were fouler than the foulest death. 1 I soldiers, lovers, Christians, men I Think that each breeze that floats and dies O er the red field, from mount or glen, Is burdened with a maiden s sighs ; And each false soul that turns to flee, Consigns his love to infamy ! No pity ! let your thirsty brands, Drink their warm fill at caitiff veins, Dip deep in blood your wrathful hands, Nor pause to wipe those crimson stains. Slay I slay ! with ruthless sword and will, The God of vengeance bids you " kill 1" 290 LINES FEOM THE HON. Yes ! but there s one who must not die In battle harness ! one for whom Lurks in the darkness silently Another and a sterner doom ! A warrior s end should crown the brave, For him strong cord and felon grave 1 As loathsome charnel vapors melt, Swept by the rushing winds to nought, So may this fiend of lust and guilt Die like a nightmare s hideous thought. Nought left to mark the monster s name, Save immortality of shame ! ANON. WHAT ! clasp your red hands, and with brotherly trust, Give our faith to the cheat you called Union, before ? The flag of our Freedom drag down to the dust, And be scourged with the stripes from its folds that we tore ? Are you mad? Can it be you have souls of your own, And believe love can blossom from treacherous wrong ? Do you think that men s hearts can be turned into stone, And their pulses still leap to the Syren s false song ? THE SOUTHERN AMAEANTH. 291 Has the Puritan rage for dominion and gold So denied every well-spring of feeling and thought, That because to a despot yourselves you have sold, You believe pride and honor but wait to be bought ? We asked for our rights, and you answered with blows For brotherhood pleaded you gave us your curse A Union of hate was the Union you choose, And we ll give you none other for better for worse 1 You thought it was cheapest to smite and destroy It would cost less, you hoped, to be cruel than just And kindred and manhood went down, in your joy Over havoc and murder and rapine and lust. You have wasted our fields, and have strewn them with slain You have written your wrath on each homestead s black wall From shell-riven forest, and blood-blighted plain Are you deaf we are not to the voices that call ? There are deeds you rejoice in, a man may not name, And deeds even fouler to do you have striven We should blush before men, as joint heirs of your shame, And be false before God, if we said they re forgiven ! But Peace ! you can have it ! There was not a day, Long after you came with the torch and the sword, That you might not have swept the wild war-clouds away, With the breath of one gentle and generous word ! 292 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Tis too late for words now, and as long as you tread The soil you have ravaged come weal or come woe There is battle between us, and, living or dead, Accursed be the dastard who is not your foe ! You boast yourselves greater and wiser than we To your wisdom and greatness go back and be blest We claim but Heaven s gift to us both to be free ! That gift we will have and we leave you the rest We leave you your glories all things you hold good The rights you surrender the laws that you break Religion, whose rubric is written in blood And truth that a Pope or a Seward can speak ! We leave you your Butler pure type of your race With the fleet-footed Banks, and the gentle MclS"eill r And all the grand army of heroes, your Chase Has marshalled around him, to lie and to steal ! No tithe of these firstlings we covet or claim God keep them, to bless you, a century still ! We ask for no share in your lands or your fame Only leave us our own, and have Peace when you will ! Yes Peace while you re peaceful but Union, no never ! The lightnings of Heaven have rifted that chain ! Whom Grod puts asunder, no juggle can ever, With blasphemous vows, bind together again ! FBOM THE MAKYLAND MAIL BAG, 1863. REBELS, TIS A GLORIOUS NAME. 293 tit & BY BEV. MB. GABESCHE, ST. LOUIS MO. EEBELS ! Tis a holy name, The name our fathers bore, When battling in the cause of right Against the tyrant in his might, In the dark days of yore. Eebels ! "Pis our family name, Our father Washington Was the arch-rebel in the fight And gave the name to us, a right Of father unto son. Eebels ! Tis our given name, Our mother, Liberty, Eeceived the title with her fame, In days of grief, of fear and shame, When at her breast were we. Rebels ! Tis our sealed name A baptism of blood ! The war aye, the din of strife The fearful contest, life for life, The mingled crimson flood. Eebels ! Tis a patriot name ! In struggle it was given, We bore it then when tyrants raved, And through their curses twas engraved On the Doomsday book of Heaven ! 294 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH- Eebels ! Tis our fighting name,, For peace rules o er the land, Until they speak of craven woe. Until our rights receive a blow, From foe s or brother s hand ! Eebels ! Tis our dying name, For although life is dear, Yet freemen born and freemen bred, } "We d rather sleep as freemen, dead, Than live in slavish fear. Then call us Eebels, if you will, We glory in the name ; For bending under unjust laws, And swearing faith to unjust cause,, We count a greater shame. f w, Ml w filwto. BY GEN. ALBEBT PIKE, AEKANSAS. YES, call us rebels ! tis the name Our patriot fathers bore, And by such deeds we ll hallow it As they have done before. At Lexington and Baltimore Was poured the holy chrism, For freedom marks her sons with bloody In sign of their baptism. YES, CALL US EEBELS. 295 Eebels, in proud and bold protest Against a power unreal ; A unity which every quest Proves false as tis ideal. A brotherhood whose ties are chains ; Which crushes what it holds, Like fabled Laocoon of old, Within the serpent s folds. Eebels, against the malice vast, Malice that nought disarms, Which fills the quiet of our homes With vague and dread alarms, Against the invader s daring feet, Against the tide of wrong, Which has been borne, in silence borne, But borne, perchance too long. We should be cowards did we crouch Beneath the lifted hand, Whose very wave, ye seem to think, Will chill us where we stand. Yes, call us rebels ! tis a name Which speaks of other days, Of gallant deeds, and gallant men And wins us to their ways. Fair was the edifice they raised, Uplifting to the skies ; A mighty Samson neath its dome In grand quiescence lies. Dare not to touch his noble limb With thong or chain to bind, Lest ruin crush both you and him This Samson is not blind ! 296 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. row tin BY GEOBGE H. MHES, MARYLAND. GOD save the South ! God save the South ! Her altars and firesides God save the South ! Now that the war is nigh Now that we arm to die Chanting our battle cry, Freedom or Death ! God be our shield At home or afield, Stretch thine arm over us, Strengthen and save ! "What though they re five to one, Forward each sire and son, Strike till the war is done, Strike to the grave. God make the right Stronger than might ! Millions would trample us Down in their pride ! Lay thou their legions low ; Eoll back the ruthless foe ; Let the proud spoiler know God s on our side ! Hark 1 honor s call, Summoning all GOD SATE THE SOUTH. 297 Summoning all of us Up to the strife. Sons of the South awake ! Strike till the brand shall break I Strike for dear honor s sake, Freedom or life ! Rebels before "Were our fathers of yore ; BEBELS ! the glorious name Washington lore ! Why, then be ours the same Title he snatched from shame ; Making it first in fame, Odious no more. War to the hilt ! Theirs be the guilt, Who fetter the freemen To ransom the slave. Up, then, and undismayed, Sheathe not the battle-blade, Till the last foe is laid Low in the grave. God save the South ! God save the South ! Dry the dim eyes that now Follow our path. Still let the light feet rove Safe through the orange grove ; Still keep the land we love Safe from all wrath. 298 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. God save the South. ! God save the South ! Her altars and firesides God save the South ! For the rude war is nigh, And we must win or die ; Chanting our battle-cry Freedom or Death. IN ME M RIAM. ALAS ! bright land of forest, hill and dale. And mountain majesty all thunder-robed: The blighting shadow of war s sulphurous wings Has darkened all thy happy homes, and made Thy hallowed sod one mighty sepulchre. Thy young, thy noble, and thy brave went down, And age and innocence all mercilessly, As when the Orient breathes its poisoned breath O er some plague-stricken city. Long, long years, With fond remembrance of youth s thoughtless days r And mingled joys of home and young love s dreamy Come back as yesterday. A careless boy, Again I lie beneath the branching arms Of brave old oaks, and mid their leafy gloom Hear June winds lisping from red clover fields, Or through the summer s deep ning twilight, watch Love s burning star go down the cloudless West VIRGINIA: IN MEMOPJAM. 299 Youth dreamed its aureate dreams, and clustering hopes Unto fruition with young manhood grew, Until, Beloved, around thy bridal brow, And mid thy waving wealth of glossy tress. The fragrant orange hung its snowy bloom ; And when in shady nooks the dogwoods strewed Their starry flowers, and maples, crimson plumed, Stood silent by the plashing mountain streams, In thy loved image by our hearthstone grew The radiant beauty of our sinless child. Peace dwelt around us with its thousand joys, And o er broad swelling fields of yellow grain Glad Plenty heaved her cereal sheen of gold. How oft beneath the ancestral oaks reclined, "We watched the winged clouds o er the empyrean float? Like shadowy barks that bear the white-robed To the isles of bliss : and heard from leafy copse The quail s low whistle, and amid the flowers The hum of wild bees laden with their sweets : While iieath where woodbines propped the twittering: eaves, And arrowy swallows built their sheltered nests ; Through the thick fleckered shade gay butterflies On gold-eyed wings, like wandering sunbeams went ; Peace laughed in every breeze, and sweeter far "Was the answering laughter of our joyous child. War came ; its clarion blast shook thy red hills, That erst but echoed back love s warbled strains, And down thy green vales poured its crimson tide, Beloved old land. As when black thunder clouds Break on thy craggy Alleghanian brows, 300 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And flood with, ruin all thy fruitful fields, So rolled in bloody waves the human tide. Fierce rose thy sons. From fertile plains that lie Along the margin of thy throbbing main, And misty glens where dewy kalmais hang Their cloudy blooms, mid giant hills deep-bosomed, They came, with honor panoplied and right, And gleaming swords that fair hands girded on With tearful eyes exultant rose, and back All cowering hurled the vaunting foe. Alas! That vain thy red earth drank the redder tide Of brave hearts poured on Freedom s battle shrines. By frenzied passions, fierce, fanatic, driven, As wave on wave the restless ocean rolls, The fierce tornado of Hate s vengeance swept War s fiery billows o er thy bleeding land ! In vain thy martyr Hero died ! In vain Thy noblest chieftains led their dwindling hosts, And firmly as thy granite mountains stand, Thy best and bravest stood, to honor true, And ghastly in the sun, black, festering, heaped The corses of thy foes. Ah ! all in vain, Gold bought and innumerable they came. As on the holy Prophet s vision swarmed, When fell a star from Heaven, and from deep Hell, At sounding of the angel s trumpet rose, Mid clouds and darkness, dread Apollyon s hosts ; So from the battle s grimy smoke thy foes. VIEGINIA : IN MEMORIAM. 301 While horrid vengeance in their sulphurous van, With gory hands waved high her flaming brand, Lit thy red pyre and laughed in fiendish glee, O er the wild chaos of her glutted Hate ! Lo ! mid black clouds of conflagration dire, While red-eyed carnage shuddering stands aghast, Sinks thy last sun behind the mountains blue, And o er thy night gleams not one cheering star ! Peace comes once more : as breaks in eastern skies, Faint through gray clouds, the morning s sickly light To sorrowing watcher o er the voiceless dead ! In darkness clad she comes, and robes blood-stained ; There is no smile upon her iron lips, No kindling brightness in her sunken eyes, No glowing splendors on her ghastly brow ; The olive branch she bears is glittering steel. The homeless orphan s wail her song of joy ! Keluctant hovering o er thy burning homes, Like some sad, brooding sprite, on restless wings That long again to try their weary flight, She brings no healing balm to widowed hearts. Peace comes ! Back through long years the soldier hails The pleasing memories of his happy home, And thither turns to mingle with his griefs The soothing sweets of unforgotten joys. Once more I stand where once all proudly stood My old ancestral home. Ah ! all is changed 1 Its crumbling walls, where rolled the fierce flames through ; 802 THE SOUTHEEN AMAKAXTH. Its airy halls, deep-fissured gaps. All charred And blackened, far and wide its rafters strewn ; The red flame s burning tips have swallowed up The mementoes of my holy ones ; And with thick falling tears, that unbid flow, Past thronging memories of the olden time Sad, solemn echoes from youth s buried hopes. But where are they who still could make this wild A paradise of Joy ? Love s holy ones ? Two red mounds rise beside my ancient graves, Where kind hands laid their weary hearts to rest Oone in their brightness and their beauty, gone And never more o er life s dark way, for me Shall light of love its glad ning radiance shed. & * & & -sf-x- * #> The while lone, sad, and desolate, I sit Beside the red graves of my loved and lost, All silent grows the busy insect world, Long slanting shadows mark the dewy grass, And from the oak tree s branches, blast and bare Hoarse croaks the raven to the setting sun. ******-5f* Farewell ! loved land ; lone, weary, worn, I go "Where er the exile s wandering footsteps lead, And memory s treasured wealth of sorrows bear, Till faithful hands of loved ones gone before Shall open, wide the Eternal Gates ! Farewell ! Perhaps in after years, when truth shall write The bloody story of thy many wrongs, The musing student, mourning thy sad fate, Shall ask : " Were thy JSonian fountains dry ? VIRGINIA : A SONNET 303 Came there no wail from broken harps, to tell The widowed woe of thy black Desolation, Or rouse to daring once again thy sons ? Did clanking fetters of the Tyrant drown The boasting legend of thy honored shield, And still the voices from thy mighty graves ? The slaves of Tyrants and the slaves of slaves, Ye kissed the hand that smote, and suppliant cringed To barter honor for the Despot s gold !" Ah, no ! thy Grenius points the glowing page, "Where truth the stainless record of thy glory keeps, And proudly smiling, hails a brighter day. Thou art not dead, old land ; red embers glow Beneath the ashes of thy blasted hopes, That yet shall light thy sacred altar fires, And on thy cloud-robed mountains fearless still, Thy ancient Genius grasps her shivered spear ; Proudly defiant, waits the coming day When Freedom s sun shall light the world once more I CITY OF MEXICO, September, 1865. FBOM THE METROPOLITAN KECOED. A SONNET. BY MRS. MAKGAEET J. PEESTON. OEANDLY thou fillest the world s eye to-day My proud Virginia ! When the gage was thrown The deadly gage of battle thou, thou alone, Strong in thy self-control, didst stoop to lay 304 THE SOUTHERN AMAKANTH. The olive-branch thereon, and calmly pray "We might have peace the rather. When the foe Turned scornfully upon thee, bade thee go, And whistled up his war-hounds, then the way Of duty full before thee, thou didst spring Into the centre of the martial ring Thy brave blood boiling, and thy glorious eye Shot with heroic fire, and swear to claim Sublimest victory in God s own name, Or, wrapped in robes of martyrdom, to die I rl tint April 102A, 1865. BY FLORENCE ANDERSON, KENTUCKY. HAVE we wept till our eyes were dim with tears, Have we borne the sorrows of four long years, Only to meet this sight ? O merciful God, can it really be This downfall awaits our gallant Lee, And the cause we counted right ? Have we known this bitter, bitter pain, Have all our dear ones died in vain ? Has God forsaken quite ? Is this the answer to every prayer, This anguish of deep, untold despair, This spirit-scathing blight ? SURRENDER OF THE A. N. VA. 305 Heart-broken we kneel on the bloody sod, We hide from the wrath of our angry God, Who bows us in the dust. We heed not the sneer of the insolent foe, But that THOU, O God ! should forsake us so In whom was our only trust ! Even strong men weep ! the men who stand Fast in defence of our native land, Those gallant hearts and brave ; They wept not the souls who, fighting, fell, For the hero s death became them well And they feared not the hero s grave. They have marched through long and stormy nights, They have borne the brunt of a hundred fights, And their courage never failed ; Hunger, and cold, and summer heat, They have felt on the march and the long retreat, Yet their brave hearts never quailed. Now, all these hardships seem real bliss Compared with the grief of a scene like this, This speechless, wordless woe ; That LEE, at the head of his faithful band, The flower and pride of our Southern Land, Must yield to the hated foe ! The conquered foe of a hundred fields, The foe that, conquering, the laurel yields LEE S sad, stern brow to grace ; 306 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. For lie, with the pain of defeat in his heart, Will bear in history the nobler part, And fill the loftier place ! Scatter the dust on each bowed head, Happy, thrice happy, the honored dead, Who sleep their last, long sleep ; For we who live in the coming years, Beholding days with phantom fears What can we do but weep ? BY MBS. MAHGAEET J. PKESTON. I. UNCONQUEKED captive ! close thine eye, And draw the ashen sackcloth o er, And in thy speechless woe deplore The fate that would not let thee die ! II. The arm that wore the shield, strip bare ; The hand that held the martial rein, And hurled the spear on many a plain Stretch till they clasp the shackles there ! III. The foot that once could crush the crown, Must drag the fetters, till it bleed Beneath their weight : thou dost not need It now, to tread the tyrant down. THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. 30 7 IY. Thou thought s! him vanquished boastful trust I His lance in twain his sword a wreck But with his heel upon thy neck, He holds thee prostrate in the dust ! Y. Bend though thou. must beneath his will, Let not one abject moan have place : But with majestic, silent grace, Maintain thy regal bearing still. YI. Look back to all thy storied past, And sit erect in conscious pride : No grander heroes ever died No sterner battled to the last ! YII. Weep if thou wilt, with proud, sad mem, Thy blasted hopes thy peace undone, Yet brave, live on, nor seek to shun Thy fate, like Egypt s conquered Queen. YIII. Though forced a captive s place to fill, In the triumphal train, yet there, Superbly, like Zenobia wear Thy chain, Virginia victrix still ! April 9th, 1865. 308 OUK FAILURE. Of Chief Justice Marshall, at Richmond. BY INNIS EANDOLPH. are glad to see you, John Marshall, my boy, So fresh from the chisel of Eogers ! Go take your stand on the Monument there, Along with the other old codgers : "With Washington, Jeiferson, Henry, and such, Who sinned with a great transgression, In their old-fashioned notions of Freedom and Eight And their hatred of Wrong and Oppression ! You come rather late to your pedestal, John, Ah, sooner you should have been here, For the volume you hold is no longer the law, And this is no longer Virginia. The old " Marshall law " you expounded of yore, Is now not at all to the purpose ; And the new "martial law" of the new Brigadier Is stronger than Habeas Corpus. So keep the volume shut with care For the days of the law are over, And it needs all your brass to be holding, it there With JUSTICE inscribed on the cover. Could life awaken the limbs of bronze, And blaze in the burnished eye ; What would ye do with your moment of life, Ye men of the days gone by ? Would ye chide us, pity us, blush or weep Ye men of the days gone by ? Woul I Jefferson tear up the scroll he holds THE SOUTHERN AM&RANTH. 809 That time lias proven a lie ? Would Marshall shut the volume of law And lay it down with a sigh ? Would Mason roll up the Bill of Eights From a race unworthy to scan it ? Would Henry dash down the eloquent sword, And clang it against the granite ? And Washington, seated in massy strength, On the charger that paws the air, Could he see his sons in their deep disgrace Would he ride so proudly there ? lie would get him down from his big brass horse, And cover his face at our shame ; For the land of his birth is now "District One" VIRGINIA, was once the name. KICHMOND ENQTJIBEB. BY JOHN E. THOMPSON. " The name of the commonwealth is past and gone." [BYKON. OOe to Venice, CONSUMMATUM the work of destruction is done, The race of the first of the States has been run, The guile of her foes finds her triumph at last, And VIRGINIA, like Poland, belongs to the past How her story the heart s deepest reverence stirs, What a stature, antique and heroic, was hers, What a grace, what a glory, her presence adorning, In the fresh, dewy light of Liberty s morning. 310 VIRGINIA FUIT. In that day of her early espousals she came With her dowry of empire, her birthright of fame r To enrich and ennoble on land and on sea The Kepublic her Washington s valor made free. And what greatness resplendent it won, through her love, Let the eloquent page of the annalist prove, Wherein, though the page is now blotted with tears, Virginia but ever as Empress appears. The nation s decrees did her counsellors mould,* And her orators words were as apples of gold ; Her captains triumphant, afloat and ashore, Gave the banner of Union the brightness it bore. And for this, that her children disgraced not their sires^ That they strove to keep lighted their liberty fires, That they hailed her as rightfully wearing- the crown^ For this, have her enemies trampled her down. How low she lies now, stript of half her domain, Bewailing her sons who in battle were slain, With the shade of an infinite sadness upon her, And all she loved dearest, all lost but her honor I Thank Heaven ! that is safe : with a madness accurst, Let the tyrants that rule for the hour do their worst ; She may bleed neath the heel of the hireling invader, They may spoil, they may rend, but they cannot de grade her. * " To mould a mighty State s decrees, And shape the whisper of the throne. [TENNYSON." In Memoriam." THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. 311 Let them subjugate nature enraged, let them seek To drain the broad waste of the blue Chesapeake, Let them seal up the sources whence rushes Bull Kun, And shut out from the Yalley the face of the sun : Let them falsify fact, without conscience or ruth. Let them paralyze Justice and manacle Truth ; (Fair Truth, we accept of their poet the line, That the years of the Godhead eternal are thine.) Yet the record remains : in the garment of song The legend of Jackson her praise shall prolong, And Veritas Virens, crushed down though it be, Shall spring to the light in the story of LEE ! From the anguish abysmal where prostrate she lies ; YIEGINIA the Desolate, never may rise ; For already the iron hath entered her soul, And behold, at the fountain all broken the bowl ; But of just retribution there cometh the day ; The Master has promised it I WILL KEPAY And wo to the people He smites with His rod In that terrible day of the vengeance of Grod I OLD GUAED. U jimiym ltpwfe< BY FANNY DOWNING. THEY have torn off the crown from her beautiful brow, Yet she never seemed half so majestic as now, When she stands in the strength of her sorrow sublime As she ever stood, noblest and best of her time ! 312 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. They "have wiped from the roll of their country her name, Co-existent with glory, co-equal with fame ; On the record of Time it will grandly endure, As unchangeably bright as her honor is pure ! They have stolen her crest, which for ages has blazed, And the motto she loves from its surface erased, But in vain is their malice, and futile their art, For the seal of Virginia is stamped on the heart 1 Sic SEMPER TYRANNIS ! We whisper it low, "While the hearts in our bosoms exultantly glow As we think of the time in its sure-coming course, We will prove it by deeds with a terrible force. Not the we of this age ! WE shall pass from our pain Ere the bonds of Virginia are sundered in twain ; Yet the day when her children shall free her, shall dawn, Just as surely as earth in her orbit rolls on ! On her regal white shoulders they press down their yoke, But her mind is unfettered, her spirit unbroke ; A woman sore weakened, her form they control, But the points of their arrows turn blunt from her soul I Like vultures they swoop in a clamorous swarm, And their talons imprint in her delicate form ; Her treasures they covet, yet blacken and blot, While parting her garments, and casting the lot I SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS. 313 As the Jews loved the Romans that horrible night "When the Shechinah took from the Temple its flight, As the Pole loves the Cossack, and Greeks love the Turk, We Virginians love those who have compassed this work ! Yes, we love them ! As Anthony, righteous in wrath, Loved Brutus, the murderer polluting his path, When in brazen disgrace he defiantly stood, His hands redly reeking with Caesar s warm blood ! Yes, we love them ! As Eachel, whose baby lay dead, Its body apart from its innocent head, Stung to madness by pain, and infuriate with hate, In the depth of her anguish, loved Herod the Great ! Though our faces must wear in their presence no frown, In our souls we despise them and trample them down ; To Virginia in chains we exultingly cling, While we spurn them away as a leperous thing ! Not the wrath of a day, nor a season, is ours ; At the white heat of passion it ceaselessly towers ; We will keep it aglow, and its red sparks shall run Through the veins of Virginians from mother to son I For Virginia has daughters who stand at her side, And her spoilers in dignified silence deride, While serene in their strength, every feeling controlled, Into heroes the men of the future they mould ! Tis true they are infants now hushed on the breast, But we teach them a lesson no tyrant shall wrest ; 314: THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Sic SEMPER TYRANNTS we sow with their prayers They will reap with rejoicing the harvest it bears ! To Virginia, now prostrate, the cross and the sword, But her future is fair in the hand of the Lord. When His vengeance sweeps down in a fiery tide, Sh.3 shall shine as the gold that is seven times t-ried ! From Grod s own chossn people, His arm was removed While through Palestine Sisera raged unreproved, Till the work which the Lord had appointed was wrought, When the stars in their courses for Deborah fought ! Thou Mother in Israel, Virginia, shalt wake, And thy bands of captivity captive shall take ; At thy feet they shall bow, they shall crouch, they shall crawl. With Sic SEMPER TYRANNIS ! thou lt trample them all ! They humble Virginia ! As well may they try To sully the stars on Heaven s battlements high ! When they crumble to nothing, VIRGINIA shall shine Eternal, immutable, glorious, divine ! Written on reading Gen. Wade Hampton s Address to the people South Carolina. November, 1865. BY. W. "W. MANN. HAMPTON with Hamden, equal heir of glory, Shall, hand in hand, go down in living story ; TRIBUTE TO A HEEO. 315 A people s pride, shall shine in history s van, Model of hero, patriot, and man. His name, by mothers taught to list ning sons, Second to none or none but Washington s, With. Roman virtue shall those sons inspire, To turn the people from insensate ire, With patriot voice applauding senates sway, And point to glory s height, the nation s way ; When vice prevails, shall fire ingenuous youth With love of country, virtue, honor, truth, To foil ambition, rife corruption brand, Grapple oppression with an iron hand, Nor count the foe, should full invasion threat, One against ten, their dauntless legions set Athwart the spoiler, by heroic deed Shall save their country in her hour of need : " Hampton !" the battle cry that urges on To fight on every plain a Marathon ! That jewel name .on Carolina s page The South can boast none brighter, nor the age. And close to Hampton s, lit with lurid flame, See, scrolled in blood, the ruthless Sherman s name ; Immortal too, by odious title won : Rival and peer of Attila the Hun. Eape, murder, rapine, wasting fire and sword, Marked the red path of Sherman and his horde ; And desolation " howls " where er he trod. Withered be Sherman s blood-stained wreath of fame I Each leaf of laurel hides a thorn of shame. 0, name accurst ! Woman shall pale with fear, And good men hiss, when " Sherman " strikes the ear. History shall shriek, as on her penal page, She hurls the hateful thing from age to age ; 316 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And Sherman find unpit ying as he, Inexorable, just posterity. For ye shall live, triad abhorred of man, Sherman and Attila and Gengis Khan ! Yes, ruthless conqueror! thy day is now ; To-morrow s Hampton s, and the conquered, thou. Not always doth the victor win renown : Honor and Fame withhold the envied crown, Yielding to turn alone, the dear applause, "Who wields the sword, obedient to their laws. Thus, scorn o erwhelmed victorious Bourbon s name ; Thus, Bayard, conquered, lives a matchless fame ; And thus, rude Sdbreur ! spite thy sword s decree, In Glory s lists, tis Hampton s foot on thee ! Chivalry s pride, to country, honor, true, The modern Bayard, Sherman, " pities " you. Look up to him, from your triumphal car, And learn the hero ! thou mere " dog of war," From leash "let slip " when eer, elate with might, Power would enforce its triumph over right ! Ite i>H tfrifc. BY MRS. MARY E. TUCKER, GEORGIA. "Sell that crib ? Indeed, indeed, I cannot, for I see in it the faces of my children. I will starve before I sell that crib ! " [CONFEDEBANE LADY, 1864. thou art a senseless thing, Still recollections round thee cling Of joys long past ; THE OLD CRIB. 317 And I would fain retain thee now, Yet Want s stern hand and lowering brow Has o er me cast His misery, with weight untold, And, much prized crib, thou must be sold Ah ! well do I remember yet, Remember? can I well forget That happy day, When a swift tide my spirit moved, And with a mother s soul I loved The child that lay Within thy lap my precious boy ! How throbbed my heart with untold joj How swiftly, then, the years sweep on, With love, joy, wealth, they come, are And very soon A little dark-eyed bonny girl Pressed on thy pillow many a curl ; Most precious boon That ever was to mortal given A cherub from the gates of heaven. And yet again some powerful spell, Called to the earth sweet baby Bell, My sunbeam child, With hair of gold and eyes of blue, And cheeks that vie the rosebud s hue Pure, undefiled ! About my heart she seems to twine, As round the oak the clinging vine. 318 THE SOUTHERN AMAKANTH. Take back thy gold ! It shall not go I " Twas mine in weal, and now in woe It comforts me. It takes me back in fitful gleams, To the sweet fairyland of dreams, And then I see Those little heads, with glossy curls, My manly boy, my little girls ! A BALLAD. BY PAUL H. HAYNE. I FOR sixty days and upwards, A storm of shell and shot Rained round us in a flaming shower, But still we faltered not ! " If the noble city perish," Our grand young leader said, 11 Let the only walls the foe shall scale, Be the rampart of the dead I" II. For sixty days and upwards, The eye of heaven waxed dim ; YICKSBURG. 319 And even throughout God s holy morn, O er Christian s prayer and hymn, Arose a hissing tumult, As if the fiends in air Strove to ingulf the voice of faith In the shrieks of their despair, III. There was wailing in the houses, There was trembling on the marts, While the tempest raged and thundered, Mid the silent thrill of hearts ; But the Lord, our shield, was with us, And ere a month had sped, Our very women walked the streets With scarce one thought of dread. IY. And the little children gambolled Their faces purely raised, Just for a wondering moment As the huge bomb whirled and blazed ! Then turned with silvery laughter To the.sports which children love, Thrice mailed in the sweet instinctive thought That the good God watched above. Y. Yet the hailing bolts fell faster, From scores of flame-clad ships, And about us, denser, darker, Grew the conflict s wild eclipse, 320 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Till a solid cloud closed o er us, Like a type of doom and ire, Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues Of forked and vengeful fire. YI. But the .unseen hands of angels . Those death shafts turned aside, And the dove of heavenly mercy Euled o er the battle tide ; In the houses ceased the wailing And through the war-scarred marts The people strode with step of hope, To the music in their hearts. COLUMBIA, S. C., Aug. 6th, 1862. BY HENKY TIMHOD. CALM as that second summer which precedes The first fall of the snow, In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds The city bides the foe. As yet behind the ramparts stern and proud Her bolted thunders sleep Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud, Looms o er the solemn deep. No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scar To guard the holy strand, CHARLESTON. 321 But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war Above the level sand. And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched Unseen, beside the flood Like tigers in some orient jungle crouched, That wait and watch for blood. Meanwhile through streets still echoing with trade, Walk grave and thoughtful men, Whose hands may one day wield the patriot s blade As lightly as the pen. And maidens whose bright glances would grow dim At sight of bleeding wound, Seem each one to have caught strength of him Whose sword she proudly bound. Thus girt without and garrisoned at home, Day patient following day, Old Charleston looks from roof and spire and dome, Across the tranquil bay. Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands And spicy Indian ports, Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands And summer to her courts. But still along yon dim Atlantic line The only hostile smoke Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine, From some frail oak. 322 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Shall the spring dawn, and she still clad in smiles And with unscathed brow, Eest on the strong arms of her palm- crowned isles, As fair and free as now ? We know not ; in the temple of the Fates God has inscribed his doom ; And all untroubled in her faith, she waits Her triumph or her tomb. BY PAUL H. HAYNE. I I. CALMLY beside her Tropic strand An Empress, brave and loyal, I see the watchful city stand With aspect sternly royal ; She knows her mortal Foe draws near, Strong-armed by s ubtlest science, Yet deep, majestical, and clear, Kings out her grand defiance : Oh ! glorious is thy noble face, Lit up by proud emotion, And unsurpassed thy stately grace, My warrior Queen of Ocean ! II. First from thy lips the summons came, Which roused our South to action, * Never used by any collector of war poems. CHARLESTON. 323 And with the quenchless force of flame Consumed the demon Faction ; First, like a rush of mighty wind, That rends great waves asunder, Thy prescient warning struck the blind, And woke the deaf with thunder ; They saw as with a Prophet s gaze The awful doom before them, And heard with horror and amaze, The tempest surging o er them, TIL Wilt THOU, whose virgin Banner rose, A morning star of splendor, Quail when the war-tornado blows, And yield in base surrender ? Wilt THOU, upon whose loving heart Our noblest chiefs are sleeping, Give up the Patriot s place of rest To worse than Yandal keeping ? Ho ! while a life-pulse throbs for fame, Thy sons will gather round thee, Welcome, the shot, the steel, the flame, If Honor s hand hath crowned thee 1 IV. Then, fold about thy beauteous form. The imperial robe thou wearest, And front with royal port the storm Thy Foe would dream thou fearest; If strength, and will, and courage fail To cope with brutal numbers, 324 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And tliou must bow tliee, mute and pale,. Where the last hero slumbers Lift the red torch, and light the fire Amid those corpses gory, And on thy self-made funeral pyre Pass from the world to glory ! BY C WASHINGTON. SONS of the South ! from hill and dale, From mountain-top and lowly vale, ,, ^Arouse ye now ! tis Freedom s wail To arms ! to arms ! she cries. Strike ! for Freedom in the dust ; Strike ! to crush proud Mammon s lust ; Strike! remembering God is just! Thus a freeman dies. Southrons ! who with Beauregard, Day and night, keep watch and ward Southrons ! whom the angels guard, Strike for Liberty I Smite the motley hireling throng ; Smite ! as Heaven smites the wrong ; Smite ! they fly before the strong In God and Liberty ! * Written about the time of the first battle of Manassas. HYMN TO THE DAWN. 325 33y your hearthstones, by your dead, 33y all the fields where patriots bled, A freeman s home or gory bed Let the alternate be. "Weeping wives and mothers here, Sisters, daughters, dear ones near iSeas of blood for every tear, God and Liberty ! Louder swells the battle-cry, Tlaming sword and flashing eye Light the field where freemen die ! Death or Liberty ! Backward roll your poisonous waves, .Infidel and ruffian slaves ! "Tis Heaven s own wrath your blindness^laves, God and Liberty ! BY A. J. BEQUIER. (Published shortly after the last of the series of Confederate successes, which commenced at Olustee and ended with Mansfield and Pleasant Hill, and from which the public mind then drew the most hopeful auguries, respecting an Dearly termination of the war and the future of the South.) FROM an ominous rift in the pitiless sky That has darkened our desolate land, ^Springs a luminous rill of auriferous dye Gushing out of a mystical hand ; Upon valleys of carnage and mountains of fire On the heaps of the holily slain 326 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. It descends with, the rush of a resonant Iyr y And the gleam of a magical rain. It unveils from the depths of its fountains of blue,, Such a blaze of bewildering light As the Legends of Araby never yet drew From the stars of traditional light : Purple acres of grape and savannahs of snow, Full of streams that enrichingly run Through the fairest of blooms which the tropics be stow On the flowering isles of the Sun. Noble structures of Commerce and niches of Art, Stately temples and towers between, Fretted domes soaring up from the dust of the mart, Where the wonders of Science are seen ; Fluted pillars and urns to the primitive Past, And its young representative scions, And bronzes heroic, colossally vast As the winged Assyrian Lions. Oh, I see the long stretch of thy sorrowing years, Clime of cedars ! transformed in my sight From the comfortless drops of thine anguishing tears; Into dews of maternal delight : Royal anthems resounding on uttermost seas Sceptred barges that bridally toss, With their white-waving pennons unfurled to the breeze In the blush of a tremulous Cross ! Green turf of my childhood ! engirded by strife With a glory the grandest of old, OUR CITY BY THE SEA, 327 Could they dream of the toils which encompass thy Would cry out from their cryptical mould ; [life, God-anointed in War and exalted in Peace, I behold thee abroad and at home With the beautiful lips of republican Greece, And the brow of imperial Borne. iifg i| tfe Ha* fV ^V EY W. (JlLMOEE SIMMS, SOUTH CAEOUNA. OUR city by the sea, As the " rebel city " known, With a soul and spirit free As the waves that make her zone, Stands in wait for the fate From the angry arm of hate ; But she nothing fears the terror of his blow ; She hath garrisoned her walls, And for every son that falls She will spread a thousand palls For the foe ! II Old Moultrie at her gate Clad in arms and ancient fame, Grimly watching stands elate To deliver bolt and flame ! Brave the band at command, 328 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. To illumine sea and land With a glory that shall honor days of yore ; And, as racers for their goals, A thousand fiery souls While the drum of battle rolls, Line the shore ! III. Lo ! rising at his side, As if emulous to share His old historic pride The vast form of Sumter there ! Girt by waves which he braves Though the equinoctial raves, As the mountain braves the lightning on his steep ; And like tigers crouching round, Are the tribute forts that bound All the consecrated ground By the deep ! IY. It was calm, the April noon, When, in iron-castled towers, Our haughty foe came on, With his aggregated powers ; All his might against the right, Now embattled for the fight, With Hell s hate and venom working in his heart ; A vast and dread array Glooming black upon the day, Hell s passions all in play, With Hell s art! OUB CITY BY THE SEA. 329 Y. But they trouble not the souls, Of our Carolina host,* And the drum of battle rolls, While each hero seeks his post ; Firm, though few, sworn to do, Their old city full in view, The brave city of their sires and their dead ; There each freeman had his brood, All the dear ones of his blood, And he knew they watching stood, In their dread ! VI. To the bare embattled height, Then our gallant colonel sprung, " Bid them welcome to the fight," "Were the accents of his tongue ; " Music, band ! Pour out gr and The free song of Dixie Land ! Let it tell them we are joyful that they come I Bid them welcome, drum and flute, Nor be your cannon mute, Give them chivalrous salute To their doom !" f * The Battle of Charleston Harbor, April 7, 1863, was fought by South Carolina troops exclusively. f As the iron-dads approached Fort Sumter in line of battle, Col. Alfred Khett, commandant of the post, mounting the parapet, where lie remained, ordered the band to strike up the national air of Dixie, at the same time in addition to the Confederate flag, the State and Uegimental flags were flung out at different salients of the fort, and saluted with thirteen guns. 330 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. VIL Out spoke an eager gun, From the walls of Moultrie then ; And through clouds of sulphurous dun, Eose a shout of thousand men, As the shot hissing hot, Goes in lightning to the spot Goes crashing wild through timber and through mail ; Then roared the storm from all Moultrie s ports and Sumter s wall Bursting bomb and driving ball Hell in hail. VIII. Full a hundred cannon roared The dread welcome to the foe, And his felon spirit cowered As he crouched beneath the blow I As each side opened wide To the iron and the tide, He lost his faith in armor and in art ; And with the loss of faith Came the dread of wounds and scath, And the felon fear of death Wrung his heart ! IX. Quenched then his foul desires ; In mortal pain and fear, How feeble grew his fires, How stayed his fell career I How each keel, made to reel OUK CITY BY THE SEA. 331 Neath our thunder, seems to kneel Their turrets staggering wildly to and fro, blind and lame,, Iron sides and iron roof, Held no longer bullet proof, Steal away, shrink aloof, In their shame ! X. But our lightnings follow fast, With a vengeance sharp and hot ; Our bolts are on the blast, And they rive with shell and shot I Huge the form which they warm With the hot breath of the storm ; Dread the crash which follows as each Titan mass is struck ; They shiver as they fly, While their leader drifting nigh. Sinks, choking with the cry "Keokuk!" XL To the brave old city, joy I For that the hostile race, Commissioned to destroy, Hath fled in sore disgrace ! That our sons, at their guns Have beat back the modern Huns Have maintained their household fanes and their fires - And free from taint and scath, Have kept the fame and faith, (And will keep through blood and death) Of their sires ! 332 THE SOUTHEEN AMARANTH. XII. To the Lord of Hosts the glory For His the arm and might That have writ for us the story And have borne us through the fight I His our shield in that field Yoice that bade us never yield ; Oh ! had he not been with us through the terrors of that day? His strength has made us strong, Cheered the right and crushed the wrong, To His temple let us throng Praise and pray. BY W. GILMOKE SIMMS. The enemy from his camp on Moms Island, has, in frequent letters in Northern papers, avowed the object at which he aimed his shells in Charleston, to be the spire of St. Michael s Church. His practice shows that these avowals are true. AYE, strike with sacrilegious aim The temple of the living God ; Hurl iron bolts of seething flame Through aisles which holiest feet have trod ; Tear up the altar, spoil the tomb, And, raging with demoniac ire, Send down in sudden crash of doom, That grand, old, sky-sustaining spire. THE ANGEL OF THE CHURCH 333 That spire for full a hundred years * Hath been a people s point of sight ; That shrine hath warmed their souls to tears, With strains well worthy Salem s height ; The sweet, clear music of its bells, Made liquid soft in summer air, Still through the heart of memory swells, And wakes the hopeful soul to prayer. Along the shores for many a mile, Long ere they owned a beacon mark, It caught and kept the day god s smile, The guide for every wandering bark ;f Averting from our homes the scath Of fiery bolt, in storm-cloud driven The Pharos to the wandering faith, It pointed every prayer to Heaven ! Well may ye, felons of the time, Still loathing all that s pure and free, Add this to many a thousand crime Gainst peace and sweet humanity : Ye who have wrapped our town in flame, Defiled our shrines, befouled our homes, But fitly turn your murderous aim Against Jehovah s ancient domes. Yet, though the grand old temple falls, And downward sinks the lofty spire, Our faith is stronger that our walls, And soars above the storm and fire. * St. Michael s Church was opened for divine worship, February 1st, 1761. f" The height of this steeple makes the principal landmark for the pilots." -DiLoao, (in 1319.) THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Ye sliake no faith in souls made free To tread the paths their fathers trod ; To fight and die for liberty, Believing in the avenging God ! Think not, though long his anger stays, His justice sleeps His wrath is spent ; The arm of vengeance but delays, To make more dread the punishment. Each impious hand that lights the torch Shall wither ere the bolt shall fall ; And the bright Angel of the Church With seraph shield avert the ball ! For still we deem, as taught of old, That where the faith the altar builds, God sends an angel from his fold Whose sleepless watch the temple shields, And to his flock with sweet accord, Yields their fond choice, from THKONES and POWERS ; Thus Michael, with his fiery sword And golden shield, still champions ours ! And he who smote the dragon down, And chained him thousand years of time, Need never fear the boa s frown, Though loathsome in his spite and slime. He from the topmost height surveys And guards the shrines our fathers gave ; And we, who sleep beneath his gaze, May well believe his power to save 1 CAROLINA. 335 Yet if it be that for our sin Our angel s term of watch is o er, With proper prayer true faith must win The guardian watcher back once more ! Faith, brethren of the Church, and prayer In blood and sackcloth if it need ; And still our spire shall rise in air, Our temple, though our people bleed I BY AXNA PETRE DETNTES, LOUISIANA. IN the hour of thy glory, When thy name was far renowned, When Sumter s glowing storv Thy bright escutcheon crowned ; Oh, noble Carolina ! how proud a claim was mine, That through homage, and through duty, and birth right I was thine. Exulting, as I heard thee Of every lip the theme, Prophetic visions stirred me, In a hope-illumined dream A dream of dauntless valor, of battles fought and won, Where each field was but a triumph a hero every son. And now when clouds arise, And shadows round thee fall, I lift to heaven my eyes, Those visions to recall ; 336 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. For I cannot dream that darkness will rest upon thee long, OH, lordly Carolina! with thine arms and hearts so strong. Thy serried ranks of pine, Thy live-oaks spreading wide, Beneath the sunbeams shine In robes of fadeless pride ; Thus marshalled on their native soil, thy gallant sons stand forth, As changeless as thy forests green, defiant of the North. The deeds of other days Enacted by their sires, Themes long of love and praise, Have wakened high desires In every heart that beats within thy proud domain, To cherish their remembrance, and love those scenes again. Each heart the home of daring, Each hand the foe of wrong, They ll meet with haughty bearing, The war-ship s thunder song ; And though the base invader pollute thy sacred shore, They ll greet him in their prowess as their fathers did of yore. His feet may press their soil, f Or his numbers bear them down, In his vandal raid for spoil, His sordid soul to crown ; SAVANNAH FALLEN. 337 But his triumph will be fleeting, for the hour is draw ing near, "When the war-cry of thy cavaliers shall strike his startled ear. A fearful time shall come, "When thy gathering bands unite, And the larum-sounding drum Calls to struggle for the Right ; "Pro aris etprofocis" from rank to rank shall fly, As they meet the cruel foeman to conquer or to die! Oh, then a tale of glory Shall yet again be thine, And the record of thy story The laurel shall entwine ; Oh, noble Carolina ! oh, proud and lordly State ! Heroic deeds shall crown thee, and the Nations own thee great ! BY ALETHEA S. BURROUGHS, GEORGIA. 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 1 they are coming again. 338 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Coming again, oh ! glorious ones. Wrapped in the flag of the free ; Queen of the South ! bright crowns for thy sons, Only a cypress for theef Laurel, and banner, and music, and drum, Marches and requiems sweet ; Silence ! keep silence ! alas, how they come, See ! how they move through the street I Slowly, ah ! mournfully, sadly 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 noon, Some in the hey-day of life ; Bower nor blossom, nor summer, nor June, Waking them back to the strife. 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.* 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 ? Bring her, oh, bring her the garments of woe 1 Sackcloth and ashes for aye ; Winds of the South ! oh, a requiem blow, * Captain Thomas Pelot, C. S. N., killed at the capture of the Water Witch. SHERMASIZED. 339 Sighing and sorrow to-day. Sprinkle the showers from Heaven s blue eyes Wide o er the green summer lea, JRachel is weeping, oh ! Lord of the skies, Thou shalt her comforter be ! BY L. VIRGINIA. FBENCH, TENNESSEE. [This Poem was read by Miss Lucy Powell Harris, at a concert given by the pupils of the Houston Street Female High School, in Atlanta, May 1st, 1866.] IN this city of Atlanta, on a dire and dreadful day, Mid the raging of the conflict, mid the thunder of the fray In the blaze of burning roof-trees under clouds of smoke and flame Sprang a new WORD into being, from a stern and dreaded name ; Gaunt, and grim, and like a spectre, rose that WORD be fore the world, From a land of bloom and beauty, into ruin rudely hurled From a people scourged by exile from a city os tracised Pallas-like it sprang to being, and that WORD is Sher manized ! And forevermore hereafter, where the fierce Destroyer reigns, 340 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. "Where Destruction pours her lava over cultivated plains Where Want and Woe hold carnival where bitter Blight and Blood Sweep over prosperous nations in a strong, relentless flood ; Where the golden crown of Harvest trodden into ashes lies, And Desolation stares abroad with famine-frenzied eyes Where the wrong with iron sceptre crushes every Eight we prized, There shall people groan in anguish " God! the Right is Shermanized 1 MAN may rule the raids of Euin lead the legions that despoil From the lips of honest Labor dash the guerdon of its toil "Sow with salt" the smiling valleys, and on every breezy height Kindle bale-fires of destruction, lurid in the solemn night; He may sacrifice the aged, and exult when Woman stands, Mid the sunken, sodden ashes of her home, with pal sied hands Drooping over hungered children man may thus im mortalize His name with haggard infamy his watchword " Sher- SHERMAMZED. 341 Nobler deeds are WOMAN S province she must not destroy, but build, She must bring the urns of Plenty with the wine of Pleasure filled ; She must be the " sweet restorer " of this sunny South ern land ; Fill our schools, rebuild our churches, take the feeble by the hand, Aid the Press, befriend the teacher, give to Want its daily bread, And never, never fail to weave above our " noble dead " The laurel garland due to deeds of valor s high emprize, And won by men whom failure could not sink, or Shermanize ! With her wakened love of labor, let her labor on in love, Still, in softness and in stillness, as the starry circles move, Bearing light and bringing gladness, from the leaden clouds unfurled, As the soft rise of the sunlight bringeth morning to the world ; Grandly urging on Endeavor, as the gates of Day un close, Till the " solitary place again shall blossom as the rose," And Woman THE RE-BUILDEE shall be freely eulo gised By the triumph of her people, then no longer Sher- manized. dod bless our noble Georgia ! though her soil was over run, 342 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And her lands in desolation laid, beneath an Autumn* sun ; "With the signal shout " To action /" like the boom of signal guns, She has roused the iron mettle of her strong and stal wart sons. May her daughters aid that effort to rebuild and to re store, Working on for Southern freedom as they never worked, before ! May Georgia as a laggard never once be stigmatized, And her PEOPLE, PRESS, or PULPIT, never more be? Shermanized ! BY MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON. HALT ! the march is over 1 Day is almost done ; Loose the cumbrous knapsack. Drop the heavy gun : Chilled and wet and weary, Wander to and fro, Seeking wood to kindle Fires amid the snow. Eound the bright blaze gather, Heed not sleet nor cold, Ye are Spartan soldiers, WATCHING. Stout and brave and bold : Never Xerxian army Yet subdued a foe, Who but asked a blanket On a bed of snow. Shivering midst the darkness Christian men are found, There devoutly kneeling On the frozen ground, Pleading for their country In its hour of woe, For its soldiers marching Shoeless through the snow. Lost in heavy slumbers, Free from toil and strife ; Dreaming of their dear ones, Home and child and wife ; Faultless they are lying While the fires burn low, Lying in their blankets, Midst December s snow. FBOM BEECHENBBOOK. 6) 843 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY ANNIE C. KETCHUM. [Surely nothing was ever written more exquisitely pure than this. The Spirit of Poetry with which it is imbued seems to come from some rarer Eden atmosphere which is always calm and clear, and yet lovely with a golden glow, like the pure October skies which now bend over us. ] FAIRER far Than the divinest dream of him who drew The stately Eos, guiding up the blue Her gemmed and golden car, From out the tent of Night Cometh the radiant Morning brushing back The clouds, like blossoms, from her rosy track, With diamond dews bedight. o The priestly mocking-bird Waketh the grosbeak with his early hymn, And down the slopes and through the forests dim, Sweet, holy sounds are heard. Proud, regal purple bells Swinging from the fox-glove s plume, and daisies white, And silvery fairy s fringe, are gleaming bright O er all the grassy swells. Pomegranates, golden brown, Drop delicate nectar through each rifted rind, And ghostly witches -feather,* on the wind Comes slowly drifting down. * The delicate down of a peculiar kind of prairie grass common along the Northern shores of the Mexican Gulf. WATCHING. 345 The gay cicada sings Drowsily mid the acacia s feathery leaves, While round her web, the caterpillar weaves The last, white, silken rings. October silently His pleasant work fulfils with busy hands, "While, cheering him, floats o er the shining sands The murmur of the Sea. Dreaming the long night hours Of white sails corning o er the tossing deep, She hath arisen from her strange, glad sleep, To look for rare, bright flowers, Cups honied to the brim, And fruits, and brilliant grasses, and the stems Of myrtles, with their waxen diadems, To offer unto him. " Steady, thou freshening breeze " Her dark eyes say, as o er the sparkling main She gazeth : " Steady, till thou bring again The ship from distant seas ; u So, ere his golden wine The setting sun adown the valley pour, Dear eyes may watch with me beside the door, The Autumn day decline." 0, birds ! 0, breezes free ! Ye may not bring her from that rocky coast 346 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. The proud ship stranded nor the tempest-tost From underneath the Sea ! But, when she wearily Shall pray for comfort, of that country tell Where all the lost are crowned with asphodel, And "there is no more Sea I" LADIES HOME, GEOEGIA. BY HON. W. D. POUTER, CHARLESTON, S. CAROLINA. " We have outposts or videttes outside of the line of pickets. The instructions are, to stand on duty two hours at a time, perfectly still without moving hand or foot, and in these cold, bitter nights we get almost frozen. " Extract of a letter from a boy in the Army of Vir ginia, to his mother, dated " Road near Derby own." THE winter night is dark and chill, The winter rains the trenches fill ; Oh ! art thou on the outposts still, My soldier boy ? Thy mother s heart is sick with fear, The moaning winds sound sad and drear, The foeman lurks in ambush near, My soldier boy. One treach rous shot may lay thee low ! My stricken heart with such a blow, No rest nor peace again would know, My soldier boy. LEE TO THE BEAJR. 347 Thy tender years and soft brown eyes Ill-suited seem to such emprise, But in thy soul the manhood lies, My soldier boy. I think by day and dream at night, I start at tidings of the fight, And learn thee safe with such delight, My soldier boy. Cheerful and bright, thou dost essay To chase my every tear away, And turn the night into the day, My soldier boy. In thee I gave what most I love ; For thy return, thou weary dove, I lift my fervent prayers above, My soldier boy. Temper the wind to my dear child, Oh ! God and curb the winter wild, And keep in thy embraces mild, My soldier boy. BY JOHN K. THOMPSON. DAWN of a pleasant morning in May, Broke through the wilderness cool and grey, While perched in the tallest tree-tops, the birds Were carolling Mendelssohn s " Songs without words." 348 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Far from the haunts of men remote, The brook brawled on with a liquid note, Ana Nature, all tranquil and lovely, wore The smile of the spring, as in Eden of yore. Little by little as daylight increased, And deepened the roseate flush in the East Little by little did morning reveal Two long glittering lines of steel ; Where two hundred thousand bayonets gleam, Tipped with the light of the earliest beam, And the faces are sullen and grim to see, In the hostile armies of Grant and Lee. All of a sudden, ere rose the sun, Pealed on the silence the opening gun A little white puff of smoke there came, And anon the valley was wreathed in flame. Down on the left of the rebel lines, Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines, Before the rebels their ranks can form, The Yankees have carried the place by storm. Stars and Stripes on the salient wave, Where many a hero has found a grave, And the gallant Confederates strive in vain The ground they have drenched with their blood to regain ! Yet louder the thunder of battle roared Yet a deadlier fire en the columns poured Slaughter infernal rode with despair, furies twain, through the murky air. LEE TO THE REAR. 349 Not far off in the saddle there sat, A grey-bearded man in a black slouched hat ; Not much moved by the fire was he, Calm and resolute Robert Lee. Quick and watchful he kept his eye On the bold rebel brigades close by, Reserves, that were standing (and dying) at ease, While the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees. For still with their loud, deep, bull-dog bay, The Yankee batteries blazed away, And with every murderous second that sped A dozen brave fellows, alas ! fell dead. The grand old grey -beard rode to the space Where death and his victims stood face to face, And silently waved his old slouched hat A world of meaning there was in that ! " Follow me ! Steady ! We ll save the day 1" * This, was what he seemed to say ; And to the light of his glorious eye The bold brigades thus made reply 11 We ll go forward, but you must go back " And they moved not an inch in the perilous track : " Go to the rear, and we ll send them to h !" And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell Turning his bridle, Robert Lee Rode to the rear. Like the waves of the sea, * An incident in the Battle of the Wilderness. 350 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Bursting the dikes in their overflow, Madly his veterans dashed on the foe. And backward in terror that foe was driven, Their banners rent and their columns riven, Wherever the tide of battle rolled Over the Wilderness, wood and wold. Sunset out of a crimson sky, Streamed o er a field of ruddier dye, And the brook ran on with a purple stain, From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain. Seasons have passed since that day and year Again o er its pebbles the brook runs clear, And the field in a richer green is drest Where the dead of a terrible conflict rest Hushed is the roll of the rebel drum, The sabres are sheathed, and the cannon are dumb, And Fate, with his pitiless hand has furled The flag that once challenged the gaze of the world ; But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides ; And down into history grandly rides, Calm and unmoved as in battle he sat, The Grey -bearded man in the black slouched hat GENERAL ROBERT E. LEE. 351 BY MARY BAYAED CLARKE. (TENELLA. ) NORTH CAROLINA. As went the kniglit with a sword and shield To tournay or to battle field, Pledged to the lady fair and true, For whom his knightly sword he drew ; You offered at your country s call " Your life, your fortune and your all ;" Pledging your sacred honor high, For her to live, for her to die ; With her you cast your future lot, And now, without one single spot To dim the brightness of your fame, Or cast a shadow o er your name, You lay your sword with honor down, And wear defeat as twere a crown ; Nor sit like Marius brooding o er A ruin which can rise no more ; But from your Pavia bear away A glory brightening every day. Above the wreck which round you lies Calm and serene I see }^ou rise, A grand embodiment of PRIDE Chastened by sorrow, and allied To disappointment but to show How bright your virtues neath it glow. But who may tell how deep the dart Is rankling in your noble heart, Or dare to pull the robe aside Which Caesar draws, his wounds to hide. OLD GUARD, N. Y. 352 THE SOUTHEKN AMARANTH: AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR. WALKEK MEKEWETHER BELL. [On one occasion during the war in Virginia, General Lee was ly ing asleep by the wayside, when an army of 15,000 men passed by with hushed voices and footsteps, lest they should disturb his slum bers.] 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 deepest lines ; Fresh from his own loved mountains bore The murmur of the pines, And the glad sound of waters, The blue rejoicing streams, Whose sweet familliar tones were blent With the music of his dreams. They brought no sound of battle din, Shrill fife or clarion But only tenderest memories Of his own fair Arlington : With perhaps a grander vision Which alas ! was not to be, Of a new-born banner floating O er a land redeemed and free. While thus the chieftain slumbered, Forgetful of his care, HUSH. 353 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 weary chief is laid. And down the line a murmur From lip to lip there ran Until the stilly whisper Had spread to rear and 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, Eound her baby s cradle bed ; And rank and file and column, So softly on they swept It seemed a ghostly army Had passed him as he slept ; But mightier than enchantment, Was that whose magic wove The spell that hushed their voices Deepest reverence and love. METROPOLITAN EECOED. 354 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. (M. c. L.) BY MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON. SHE boasts no Amazonian charms, Minerva s hemlet never bound her ; And though she finds delight in arms Tis when her father s are around her. She does not aim to make a mark, Like Philippa (as Froissart wrought her :) She is no modern Joan D Arc, Like Garibaldi s wife or daughter. And while there meets in her young veins Ancestral blood the patriot s sage s Whose fame rung out in trumpet strains Goes gathering glory down the ages She is not proud, nor cold, nor grand ; No haughtiness her tone evinces ; Her heart is open as her hand Her hand is liberal as a prince s. She does not awe you with her eye, And yet its glance goes straightway through you. A latent fire to warm you by A steady stellar light to woo you. Her smile is like the golden day s Irradiating every feature ; A HEKO S DAUGHTER. 355 You catch its influence as you gaze, And own " she is a gracious creature. So genial her responsive mind, With every varying mood agreeing, You wonder how she comes to find The very key-note of your being. Beneath her sparkling surface flow, The breezy freshness and the laughter, - Wells deep and strong an undertone Of rare and racy wisdom, after. Sweet, fire-side glances all are hers ; The chatalaine beside the bodice Is but one token that avers She is a very household goddess ! Accepting with unmurmuring lips, War s stern decree, its griefs, its losses ; And nobler through that blood-eclipse, And stronger for its burdening crosses ; She folds no hands in languid pause, Child of her father, true to duty, She weeps at heart, the dear "lost cause," Yet fills the busy hours with beauty. Her heroism holds in view Our people s strife for life, the lesser Yet bitterer one ! There s work to do, And well she does it ; so God bless her ! THE LAND WE LOVE, Charleston, S. G.. 856 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY E. KEY BLUNT. IN the name of God ! Amen ! Stand for our Southern rights ; On our side, Southern men, The God of Battles fights ! Fling the invaders far Hurl back their word of woe The voice is the voice of a brother, But the hands are the hands of a foa They come with a trampling army, Invading our native sod Stand Southrons ! fight and conquer, In the name of the mighty God ! They are singing our song of triumph,* "Which proclaimed us proud and free While breaking away the heart-strings Of our nation s harmony. Sadly it floateth from us, Sighing o er land and wave ; Till, mute on the lips of the poet, It sleeps in his Southron grave. Spirit and song departed ! Minstrel, and minstrelsy ! We mourn ye, heavy hearted, But we will we will be free ! * The Star Spangled Banner, written by Francis S. Key, of Balti more, all of whose descendants are Confederates. THE SOUTHERN CKOSS. 357 They are waving our flag above us, With the despot s tyrants will ; With our blood they have stained its colors, And they call it holy still. With tearful eyes but steady hand, We ll tear its stripes apart, And fling them like broken fetters, That may not bind the heart But we ll save our stars of glory, In the might of the sacred sign Of him who has fixed forever Our " Southern Cross " to shine. .Stand, Southrons ! fight and conquer I Solemn, and strong and sure ! The fight shall not be longer Than God shall bid end are. By the life that but yesterday Waked with the infant s breath ; By the feet which ere morning may Tread to the soldier s death ! By the blood which cries to heaven Crimson upon our sod Stand, Southrons ! fight and conquer In the name of the mighty God 1 358 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. In reply to sundry attacks lately made upon them "by some members of the Northern Press. BY MES. C. A. "BAT/l-., SOUTH CAEOUNA. L WHEN war s grim visage o er us frowned, And desolation reigned around When souls of joy and hope were shorn, And life-strings rudely rent and torn When e en our bravest were unmanned, And waves of woe rolled o er our land Our Southern women fearless stood, And firmly met the raging flood. IL When fiercely rang the battle cry, Calling our hosts to bleed and die When from each home some cherished form. Went out to meet the gathering storm When death was showering forth his darts. And trampling over loving hearts Our noble women checked each tear, And uttered nought but words of cheer. III. When after each terrific fray, Wounded and faint our brave boys layy Afar from friends, afar from home, OUR SOUTHERN WOMEN. 359 Where best beloved ones might not come The gentle women of our land, With pitying eye and tender hand, Watched tireless by each sufferer s bed, And wept above the unknown dead- IV. When for our cause each hope was lost, And every soul was tempest tost When homes in ashes round us lay, And o er us shone no cheering ray When enemies, with taunt and jeer, Sought to bow Southern hearts in fear Of all but pride and honor shorn, Our women paid back scorn for scorn. Y. Then let the press, by Forney led, Pour out its wrath on woman s head ; Let those who dared not face our men, And wield no weapon save the pen, Show to the world how brave they grow, When woman only is their foe. By enemies as vile as they, Though venom in each word may lay, Our Southern sisters, true and tried, Care not how much they are belied, While loved and honor d, still they stand The pride of their own sunny land. HOME, Atlanta, Ga. 360 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY MABT E. BBTAN. THE paeans of a conquering foe Ring wild across the Western River ; And all a nation s hopes are low, And they are slaves forever. Slaves ! While ten thousand stalwart forms The freeborn and the brave, The blood of youth and vigor warms, Shall such a word as slave Be breathed, to dye the cheek with flame Of fiery anger, not of shame ? Oh ! rather than at last to lie Beneath a low-born despot s heel, Ten thousand hands will fling on high Their dark, blood-rusted steel ; Ten thousand voices send a cry Up to the pealing heaven, In wild, despairing strife to die, Though not a soul were shriven, Than, after all their glorious past, To lose, to yield, to cringe at last. Not so ! along the marshalled lines, In vain their leader s voices ring. They stand, dark, sullen as the pines, That o er them shadows fling They listen with cold looks or sneers, And arms at careless rest. Thus after all the toil of years The Army of the West ; THE MISSOURI CAP IAIN. 361 And, when their chieftains voices cease The word they mutter is for "peace." Alas ! they pine for home and rest ; Disease, and want, and toil, And hope deferred have dimmed the crest That once no shade could soil. Doubt not the Southron s courage true, His honor high and pure, His is the power to dare and do, But never to endure. They furl the flag to float no more, The flag they once so proudly bore. The indignant blood one moment burned In the young leader s cheek, The next with scornful smile he turned, A lonelier path to seek. The thunders of a coming storm Knelled in the far off West ; He heard them not, thoughts wild and warm Were struggling in his breast Pale, slight, he was, and young in years, Yet seemed his lip the home of sneers, And, in his eye, the look that sears Told that youth s softness and it s tears Had been consumed by burning cares. " Peace !" and that eye shot forth a fire, Like the red flash that burst That instant, from the cloudy pyre. lk Peace ! be the word accursed. Peace ! yes, such peace as, fainting feels 362 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. The fawn, round whom his coils The boa winds in rings of steel ; Alas ! such peace as foils The lowest hope of happiness, Is such as comes our land to bless ! Peace ! while yet smoking is the brand That lit our blackened homes ; Yet reeking with our blood the hand That now with insult comes ! When peace means ruin, famine, chains, And infamy, and shame ; All that can stamp a damning stain Upon a nation s name ! The craven souls !" he hissed the word His soul by fiercest passion stirred. A sudden wind swooped from on high, And strewed the locust s blooms of foam And bore from the rude camp near by The chorus, " Home, sweet home." And softer grew those scornful lips, As came that plaintive tone, And, from the gloomy brow s eclipse, The eye less fiercely shone ; Although he knew that song bespoke His men had thrown off duty s yoke. He heard the shout, the loud adieu, The laugh s gay, mocking tone, With sad, scarce bitter smile, he knew He soon would be alone ; And he had joyed in other days, THE MISSOURI CAPTAIN. 363 When battle boomed anear, Upon that stalwart band to gaze, And hear their cheerings clear, And mark the bright steel gleam on high, And see his gallant colors fly. " Tis well," he muttered, " let them go, Home, love, for them remain, And these may bid some flowers glow Around even Slavery s chain, But me ! what is there left for me Beneath the heaven s wide cope ? "Where shall my place of refuge be Who have no home, no hope ? Home 1 how that word sends through my brain The fiery thrills of hate again ! Yes, hate and vengeance these remain. " My home ! Oh ! night of wo and shame, When after blood and toil, An outlawed man, by stealth I came Back to my native soil ; One hour that sacred soil to press, Disgraced by vandal feet ; One hour to feel my child s caress, My wife s fond kiss to meet, I went ; beneath Night s clouded dome, I saw the ashes of my home ; " And for my only welcome sound, I heard my dog s low moan Too weak to Iteave the spot of ground Where he was crouched alone. 364 THE SOUTHERN AMAKANTH. I saw the spot a grave-shaped mound, And knew my babe lay under ground. X--X-****** " My only child ! and where, oh ! where Was she who gave it life ? I shrieked aloud in my despair For her, my murdered wife. A cold hand fell upon my own, I heard my whispered name, A pale face in the moon-light shone, And wild thoughts went and came, Until that low voice, warning, said, Be still, alas ! she is not dead. " Oh God ! the dark tale that she told That old and withered dame And yet my heart stood still and cold To hear those words of shame. My home by hirelings burnt, my child Stifled amid its flame, My wife by demon arts beguiled, Blackening my honored name ; The pure sweet lips that I had kissed, Press d by the fip.nd whose curse had hissed But late around my dying child And blazing home by him beguiled ! I was so calm, I think I smiled. " And yet that hour in my heart, Dried every dew of hope, Saw every olden light depart That lit my horoscope. THE MISSOURI \PTAIN. 365 Henceforth, one aim should fill my soul, One purpose nerve my hand, My life should have one only goal. And at my Fate s command, I knelt above the turf where lay, My murdered child but not to pray. " The curse I breathed, the oath I swore, Burn yet upon my brain, No after hope existence bore, No feelings yet remain Save stern revenge, and love for thee, My own, my bleeding land. My only dream to see thee free And bright and glorious stand Among the nations of the earth, The first in glory and in worth. " And now, to see thy sons despair So soon of thy release, To hear throughout thy realm one prayer For ignominious peace ! To see them throw their arms aside And leave thee to thy fate More dear that in thy hour of pride, Now thou art desolate. Just God ! the chains that thou must wear, The heavy insults thou must bear I " Oh I by thy wrongs and by my own, The bones of my dead child, My home in blackened ashes strown, By all that drove me wild, 366 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. I swear this well-worn sword I hold Shall ever sheathless be Until this burning blood is cold, Or else, my country free. Revenge, revenge is all I crave, And then a soldier s lowly grave." The storm that gathered o er his head, In pealing thunders broke ; The oak, whose branches near him spread, Was shivered as he spoke. He heeded not the omen dire, Strong feeling shook his soul ; He knelt amid the tempest s fire, The thunder s heavy roll. Brave, eagle soul, without a mate I The young, the proud, the desolate, Scathed by the lightning bolt of fate 1 NATCHTTOCHES TIMES, LA., June 3d, 1865. BY A. E. "WATSON, GEOEGIA. ["Mamma, what is the report? asked a four year old prattler* I answer the question for that mother. ] A GREAT long line of men, my boy, Who breast to breast with the foe, Stand there in the cold, the heat, the rain, And bear such toils again and again, As I hope you may never know. THE FRONT. 367 Tis a line of glittering guns, my boy, And sabres keen and bright, And cannon grim, whose terrible sound Like an earthquake shakes the solid ground, Till it rocks in very fright Every man who stands in that line, my boy, Every man who holds a gun, Is a savior, my boy, for you and me ; They have bared their bosoms to make us free ; We were slaves unless it were done. You know where our old home stood, my boy ? Ah ! I know you remember it well ! But the dear old house stands not there now, It is gone : and the papers have told us how It was burned by a Yankee shell. They fired at our army there, my boy, Our front ran along by the farm They heard the whistling missiles come Which left us, my boy, without a home ; But it did far greater harm. For great, good men were there, my boy, Where the cruel iron fell, And two brave fellows bit the dust And ten were wounded by the burst Of the shrieking Yankee shell. o You think it a cruel thing, my boy, To kill each other so, But were you a man, like those who stand 368 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. In a line at the front, to protect their land, I would have you stand there too. For my country is in distress, my boy ; They have said we shall not be free, They have dotted our hills all over with graves But our homes are not yet the homes of slaves, Pray God they may never be ! But I fear they would, they would, my boy, But for the great, long, line At the front, whose cannon do bloody work, Who handle the sword with a wicked jerk, W hile they fight for you and me. They do not think it wrong, my boy, That the great baptismal font Which seals our freedom to us, and saves You and me, my boy, from being slaves, Is filled with blood at the front. METEOPOLITAN EECOBD. BY HENRY TIMROD. Written during the meeting of the first SoutJiern Congress at Montgomery, Alabama, February, 1861. I. HATH not the morning dawned with added light ? And shall not evening call another star Out of the infinite regions of the night, To mark this day in Heaven ? At last, we are ETHNOGENESIS. 369 A nation among nations : and the world Shall soon behold in many a distant port Another flag unfurled ! Now, come what may, whose favor need we court ? And, under God, whose thunder need we fear ? Thank Him who placed us here Beneath so kind a sky the very sun Takes part with us ; and on our errands run All breezes to the ocean ; dew and rain Do noiseless battles for us ; and the Year, And all the gentle daughters in the train, March in our ranks, and in our service wield Long spears of golden grain ! A yellow blossom as her fairy shield, June flings her azure banner to the wind, While in the order of their birth Her sisters pass ; and many an ample field Grows white beneath their steps, till now, behold, Its endless sheets unfold THE SNOW OF SOUTHERN SUMMERS ! Let the earth Kejoice ! beneath those fleeces soft and warm Our happy land shall sleep In a repose as deep As if we lay intrenched behind Whole leagues of Eussian ice and Arctic storm ! IL And what if, mad with wrongs themselves have wrought, In their own treachery caught, By their own fears made bold, And leagued with him of old, 370 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Who long since in the limits of the North, Set up his evil throne, and warred with God What if, both mad and blinded in their rage, Our foes should fling us down their mortal gage, And with a hostile step profane our sod ! We shall not shrink, my brothers, but go forth To meet them, marshalled by the Lord of Hosts, And overshadowed by the mighty ghosts Of Moultrie and of Eutaw who shall foil Auxiliars such as these ? Nor these alone, But every stock and stone Shall help us ; but the very soil And all the generous wealth it gives to toil, And all for which we love our noble land, Shall fight beside, and through us, sea and strand, The heart of woman and her hand, Tree, fruit, and flower, and every influence, Gentle, or grave, or grand ; The winds in our defence Shall seem to blow ; to us the hills shall lend Their firmness and their calm ; And in our stiffened sinews we shall blend The strength of pine and palm ! III. Nor would we shun the battle-ground, Though weak as we are strong ; Call up the clashing elements around, And test the right and wrong ! On one side, creeds that dare to teach What Christ and Paul retrained to preach ; Codes built upon a broken pledge, And charity that whets a poniard s edge ; ETHNOGENESIS. 371 Fair schemes tliat leave the neighboring poor To starve and shiver at the schemer s door, While in the world s most liberal ranks enrolled, He turns some vast philanthropy to gold ; Eeligion, taking every mortal form But that a pure and Christian faith makes warm, Where not to vile, fanatic passion urged, Or not in vain philosophies submerged, Hepulsive with all Pharisaic leaven, And making laws to stay the laws of Heaven ! And on the o^her, scorn of sordid gain, Unblemished honor, truth, without a stain, Faith, justice, reverence, charitable wealth, And, for the poor and humble, laws which give, Not the mean right to buy the right to live. But life and home and health ! To doubt the end were want of trust in God, Who, if he has decreed That we must pass a redder sea Than that which rang to Miriam s holy glee, Will surely raise at need A Moses with his rod ! IY. But let our fears if fears we have be still, And turn us to the future ! Could we climb Some mighty Alp, and view the coming time, The rapturous sight would fill Our eyes with happy tears ! Not only for the glory which the years Shall bring us ; not for lands from sea to sea, And wealth, and power, and peace, though these shall be; 372 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. But for the distant peoples we shall bless, And the hushed murmurs of a world s distress For, to give labor to the poor, The- whole sad planet o er, And save from want and crime the humblest door r Is one among the many ends for which God makes us great and rich ! The hour perchance is not yet wholly ripe When all shall own it but the type Whereby we shall be known in every land In that vast gulf which laves our Southern strand, And through the cold, untempered ocean pours Its genial streams, that far-off Arctic shores May sometimes catch upon the softened breeze Strange tropic warmth and hints of summer seas. To the Jacobinical Rulers of the United States of America, tJiis poem is most respectfully dedicated. BY J. L. B., VIEGINIA. HIGH priest of freedom s holy cause, Chief, statesman, sage and hero, he Whom now oppression s galling chains Enslaves amidst the lawless free I He, chief of millions overwhelmed, And crushed beneath the heel of spite, Whose only crime was freeman s pride And val rous deeds in freedom s fight, Now nobly bears his country s cross Now, martyr-like, for her he bleeds ; JEFFERSON DAVIS. 873 And like the holy Nazarene, Takes on himself his country s deeds 1 The dastard stroke of stolen power Upon him falls, and thus through him, As vicar, loving millions bleed, And weep throughout his native clime. Xike Bonnivard in Chillon s walls, And Kaleigh too of later age ; He takes his daily, stinted round, The object of Oppression s rage. The crime for which he wears the chains Imposed by Faction s usurped rule, Was stern adherence to the bond,* Ordained in Freedom s ancient school, f A crime for which the mighty name Of Washington is now revered, To whom, for which, a nation s zeal, Has in memoriam proudly reared Vast piles, and has thereon inscribed -Pater Patria" an honored crime, Bequeathed by him with blood-sealed scroll, Of Liberty, to endless time ! Oh, inconsistent zealots, yea. " Degenerate sons of noble sires I" What gave to them immortal fame In your base bosoms now expires ! * Declaration of Independence, f The Congress of 1816. 374 THE SOUTHERN AXARAXTBL The annual round brings forth the da j * Of Freedom s birth, when more than men. Inscribed upon the sacred scroll " All men are free," with inspired pen ; An I to the world thereon declared, Of self-willed laws the sacred right, In ties confederate free to join, And full the power to disunite. But lo ! as oft the natal day Is ushered in, ye mouth the deed, And laud with hypocritie cant Your sires to them a worthless meed ; And then straightway with base conceit, And purblind greed of vulgar selfj Construe its force with partial aim : Ignobly grasping for the pelf Of subsidy and through the loops Of pretence false, and cunning plea Creeping thus from our common Demanding fall immunity. Through years successive have ye e er The U D claration " thus ignored ;f And facts concurrent too betrayed All bonds paternal once adored ! And thus did ye, with tyrant s greed, Provoke the patriot s last appeal * Fourth of July, f Constitutional Amendment VJE VICTIS. 375 Awoke tlie soul of chivalry, To strike the blow for Freedom s weal I To strike once more for the bequest, To all by Pater Patria made To strike as he of yore had done For Freedom with a freeman s blade I And lo ! within the prison walls, Of dastard power at Washington, Is now immured whilst praises ring, For what of erst his sword has done I QTTEENSTON, C. "W., January,, 1867. f f fefc. 1865. WHEN flaming meteors fall in starry rain, The darting splendors vanish as they fly. The watchers seek for them on earth in vain ; They fade, and rayless gloom enshrouds the sky. So gleamed upon the Southern sky, and faded, The starry splendors of heroic deeds : The shining valor of a land invaded, Is quenched by conquest, and the gloom succeeds. A people vanquished grope among the graves, And sadly murmur, blessed are the dead : The dead are martyrs, but the living slaves, Without the souls of slaves to bondage bred. The old nobility of freedom came With its aspiring thoughts to them, as heirs ; 376 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. f These thoughts, now wrenched by power that cannot tame, Pierce like a sword reverted him who bears. Remembered glory wreaks itself in anguish The war, the victories, the flag, the cause ! Remembrance is a rack for men who languish, Bereft of arms, of liberty and laws. In vain for liberty a people fought, And, year by year, unequal war renewed While richer blood than gold has ever bought, "With crimson currents all the land imbrued The ruins of free nations yield the stones To build triumphant arches in all time : The landmarks of the ages are the thrones Of conquerors, the cruel kings of crime. Yes, vain was valor, victories were vain, Though ranks of heroes threefold hosts o erthrew ; What heroes died each victory to gain I What hosts returned the battle to renew ! The right is quelled, and triumph waits on power, Till tardy time reveals redress divine. The earthquake rends the temple, as the tower, But God and truth survive their broken shrine. If e er a fallen cause and conquered land Can save for memory a chieftain s name, The chiefs who led our chivalry may stand With warriors in the foremost file of fame. Three hundred made Thermopyla3 renowned : A hundred thousand of our brave, unknown, VM VICTIS. 377 In graves unmarked by monument or mound, Lie nameless as the land they called their own. Their death was Spartan, arid their life as brave, With virtues glowed that Sparta never cherished. They for their country all but honor gave, And with her liberty their glory perished. The fields they made immortal as they fell, Pay tribute of renown to conquering foes : "When fell their country with her sons, her knell Was of their fame sole echo and its close. Now mute until their States again shall rise, Eedeemed by coming men now, haply, born ; Their fame will then salute the brightening skies, As Memnon s music hailed the kindling morn. The thunders of the battles now are hushed : Why hear we not the jocund song of peace ? Until the souls of freemen shall be crushed, Tyrannic hate its warfare will not cease. An empire and a garden was the South, With riches teeming in a golden clime, Where many a starveling now, with quivering mouth, Redeems her life by vows she deems a crime. The alms which mercy gives when hunger craves, Though sin and shame pollute the beggar s door, There wring from orphans homage, as of slaves, To those who slew their sires and made them poor. 378 THE SOUTHERN AMAEANTH. How fell the fury of intestine wars ! "Where brotherhood but barbs the keen reproof Of violated faith, till men abhor The nurslings sheltered by a brother s roo The lurid lava of invasion flowed O er town and country, garden, field and wood, And made a wilderness where cinders glowed, To mark where harvests, homes, and cities stood. But homes in ashes, art and time restore, While seasons, cherished by the sun, repair On ravaged plains the bloom they lent before ; And hearts heroic penury can bear. But States in ruins law and freedom dead ! Ah, now the men of steel like maidens weep. All, all is lost for which our heroes bled, And mourning vigils evermore we keep. Our tyrants ply the tortures of the mind With zeal, but no barbarian art ; The cunning culture of an age refined Contrives their engines to subdue the heart The fetters which they forge a nation clasp ; The scourge is wrought the spirit to debase ; More deadly than the hemlock or the asp, Their poison kills the manhood of a race. And he, vicarious victim, once our chief, Now leads the long procession of our woes. In prison walls he bears no single grief A people s chieftain still to friends and foes. VM YLCTIS. 379 The States lie served with, honors crowned his brow, And gave him primacy of power and trust ; The States which conquered them, elect him now To wear a crown which hallows human dust. The martyr s crown attends the martyr s doom, And vengeance, baffled by her stroke extreme, But makes immortal when she would entomb A cause with him who was its head supreme. A glory from his prison by the sea Afar will shine across the waves of time, To guide the prows of all who would be free, Or keep through night and storm a faith sublime. A people is immortal and can wait ; Can calmly bide the hour which God ordains ; The patient watch of ages, soon or late, A season finds to burst a tyrant s chains. SOUTHEEN SOCIETY, BALTIMOKE. flii JtUttfo of fin i>M BY M. C. Fiddlite est de Dieu. OFF from the ivory keys lift your fingers, Sweet though their glamour be, matchless their skill Hushed be the voice in the chamber where lingers The echo of words which must ever be still. Or, if the full heart will in song seek expression, Oh, borrow your strains from those desolate lands 380 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Where melody tells the long tale of oppression Unchecked, though a Czar or a viceroy commands. Tear from your garments the trappings of Fashion, Would ye the fHe of your conquerors swell, While over the lone, silent prisoner s ration The Chief of Confederates, is bowed in his cell ? Oh ! light foot of Beauty ! no longer advancing In mazes of graceful variety, steal Where Morning s first rays from the Christ s Cross are glancing On worshippers prostrate in reverent appeal. Low by the Altar where now they re kneeling, Kneel with them, weep with them, Heaven with them sue That his narrow-souled lords learn the wisdom of deal ing That justice to him, which is mercy to you. " Oh, the shame ! oh, the shame ! will be yours if for getting One hour, him who pines in the dungeon accursed ; And wherefore he pines and for whom? can you let in One hope to your hearts, in which he is not first ? Before dear love of wife, before dear love of kindred Before hopes of the later and earlier rains Be the thought of Monroe s lonely captive till sun dered His shackles forever, your feet are in chains. NEW YORK FREEMAN S JOURNAL. JEFFERSON DAVIS. 383 WALKEB MEBIWETHER BELL. Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o er our fears, Are all with thee, are all with thee. 5 LONGFELLOW. CALM martyr of a noble cause, Upon thy form in vain The Dungeon shuts its cankered jaws, And clasps its cankered chain ; For thy free spirit walks abroad, And every pulse is stirred ; With the old deathless glory thrill, Whene er thy name is heard. The same that lit each Grecian eye. Whene er it rested on The wild pass of Thermopylae The plain of Marathon ; And made the Roman s ancient blood, Bound fiercely as he told, " How well Horatio kept the bridge, In the brave days of old." The same that makes the Switzer s heart With silent rapture swell, When in each Alpine height he sees A monument to Tell : The same that kindles Irish veins When Emmet s name is told ; What Bruce to Caledonia is, Kosciusko to the Pole 382 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Art thou to us ! thy deathless fame, With Washington entwined, Forever, in each Southern heart Is hallowed and enshrined ; And though the tyrant give thy form To shameful death twere vain, It would but shed a splendor round The gibbet and the chain. Only less sacred in our eyes, Thus blest and purified, Than the dear cross on which our Lord Was shamed and crucified, Would the vile gallows tree become, And through all ages shine, Linked with the glory of thy name, A relic and a shrine ! METBOPOLITAN BECOKD. MKS. MAKGABET J. PBESTON. HAVE ye no mercy ? Punic rage Boasted small skill and torture when The sternest patriot of his age And Komans all were patriots, then Was doomed with his unwinking eyes To stand beneath the fiery skies, Until the sun-shafts pierced his brain, And he grew blind with poignant pain, While Carthage jeered and taunted. Yet, When day s slow moving orb had set, And pitying nature, kind to all, TO THE FRIENDS OF THE OLD DAYS. 883 In dewy darkness bathed "her Land, And laid it on eacli lidless ball, So crazed with gusts of scorching sand They yielded, nor forbade the grac^, By flashing torches in his face. Ye flash the torches ! Never night Brings the blank dark to that worn eye ; In pitiless, perpetual light, Our tortured Eegulus must lie! Yet tropic suns seem tender : they Eyed not with purpose to betray ; No human vengeance, like a spear Whetted to sharpness clean and clear, By settled hatred, pricked its way, Eight through the bloodshot iris ! Nay, Ye ; ave refined the torment ! Glare A little longer through the bars At the bayed lion in his lair And Grod s clear hand from out the stars. To shame inhuman man, may cast Its shadow o er those lids, at last, And end their aching, with the blest, Signet and seal of perfect rest ! THE LAND WE LOVE. BY FANNY DOWNING, NOETH CAROLINA. PROMETHEUS on the cold rock bound, The vulture at his heart, In you, oh ! Southern chief, has found A fitting counterpart. 384: THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH, The Titan by his wondrous skill Fashioned a man from clay ; You formed a nation at your will, And Lent it to your sway ! He made a dull, insensate thing, A form without a soul ; Your spirit, with life-stirring spring, Electrified the whole. Like him, your greatness did you wrong Your virtue was your bane ; Each soared above the common throng, Each found a prison chain. Your aims alike were noble ; well Ye battled, till at length, Each, having done his utmost, fell Dragged down by Force and Strength Ye fell, but gained a height sublime, And more than mortal fame, Binding upon the breast of Time An ever glorious name ! No further may the semblance go Consumed by Zeus s frown, Prometheus with supernal woe In agony bowed down. While you, oh I gentle sufferer, feel, Though bending neath the rod, A holy joy, the sign and seal Of a sustaining God I PROMETHEUS VINCTUS. 385 Within your grated prison cell A gracious guest abides, And by the same low-spoken spell, "Which stilled the raging tides Of fierce Tiberias, He exerts A spirit-soothing calm, And heals the sting of earthly hurts With heavenly peace and balm. Around you in unending play The bounding billows roar, And white with crest of seething spray Break thundering on the shore. These ocean surges well express The love, the hope, the care Which to you in your loneliness, Your faithful people bear. Chains and a prison cannot wrest Your empire from its throne ; You find in every Southern breast A kingdom and a home I The stately land you strove to save, In sable robes arrayed, Majestic mourns beside the grave Where all your hopes are laid. But though she weeps her cherished dead, With sorrow deep and true, No tears of bitterness are shed Like those that fall for you 1 386 THE SOUTHERN AMAEANTH. You hold her heart-strings in your hand, And every blow and slur, That strikes you helpless as you stand, Falls doubly hard on her ! Heaven help us all ! The New year dawns Again with gladsome birth ; God grant ere many smiling morns Have glorified the earth, That one may break amid the stars, "Which by his blest decree, Beaming across your prison bars, Shall shine upon you, FREE ! THE .LATOD \ra X.OVE. BY JANE T. H. CROSS. THE cell is lonely, and the night Has filled it with a darker gloom ; The little rays of friendly light, Which through each crack and chink found room To press in with their noiseless feet, All merciful and fleet, And bring like Noah s trembling dove, God s silent messages of love These, too, are gone, Shut out. and gone, And that great heart is left alone. Alone with darkness and with love, Around him Freedom s temple lies, PEESIDSNT DAVIS. 387 Its arches crushed, its columns low, The night wind through its ruin sighs : Rash, cruel hands, that temple razed. Then stood the world amazed ! And now those hands ah, ruthless deeds, Their captive pierce his brave heart bleeds. And yet no groan Is heard, no groan ! He suffers silently, alone. For all his bright and happy home He has that cell so drear and dark, The narrow walls for heaven s blue dome, The clank of chains for song of lark. And for the grateful voice of friends That voice which ever lends Its charm where human hearts are found He hears the key s dull, grating sound ; No heart is near, No kind heart near, No sigh of sympathy, no tear ! Oh, dream not thus, thou true and good ! Unnumbered hearts on thee await, By thee invisibly have stood ; Have crowded through thy prison gate Nor dungeon bolts, nor dungeon bars, Nor floating " stripes and stars," Nor glittering gun or bayonet, Can ever cause us to forget Our faith to thee, Our love to thee, Thou glorious soul ! thou strong ! thou free ! NEW YOBS NLWS. 388 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY LOUISE. DEAR lady, would I had the power A wreath of poesy to twine, All glowing with rich gems of thought Worthy to lay upon thy shrine ; Giving thy virtues homage due, Oh, Southern matron, brave and true I Such task will poet pens employ, v For me, I may but ask to bring My simple and untutored lay ; The poor, but earnest offering Of sympathy, that warmly glows For thee, in all thy bitter woes. ! noble wife of him whose name Is now a cherished household word, By which all true and generous hearts At home, abroad, are deeply stirred ; For him, for thee, our prayers are given, At early morn and quiet even. But most when at the twilight hour, The thronging thoughts will sadly come Of him, within his lonely cell Of thee, within thy dreary home Home ! ah, the word but mocks thee now, And bids the tide of grief o erflow. STAND FIRM! 389 Alas ! in thy fair, stricken land, What household group hath joy to-day? Its noble sons, and daughters pine, In silence neath oppression s sway ; Yet mid the griefs their hearts that wring, They weep for thy deep suffering. May He who ruleth over all, Soon re-unite thy household band, And let thy honored lord once more Amid his own beloved stand. Millions will hail the joyful hour, That sees him free from tyrant s power I :METBOPOLITAN RECOBD. ADAPTED TO A GERMAN AIR, BY MISS JULIA. C. MINTZLNG, SOUTH CAROLINA. THE storm has drifted far the wreck, The main-sails shattered, sweep the deck, The flag is furled in glory Aye comrades, lift the fallen yards, vStand firm ! the helm holds yet rewards, Your faith shall write its story. Tho mad the breakers, rough the tide, Tho tempests wild our bark shall ride, Thro Hate s hell- whirl of fire I 390 THE SOUTHEEN AMARANTH. Man the main gallant ! reef the sails F True to the Past no doubt empales, Tho fiercer waves rise higher. The clouds are towering dark with gloom, The signal beacons fitful loom, Tho shrouding mist we re bounding f The fog-bells ring in the low appeal, Solemn the Future rifts reveal, We bide the clash resounding. Each breeze a thousand echoes brings, The thunder still of battle rings, Thy wrath for them is gleaming, Its lightnings flash a ghastly wreck Steady our helm ! boys, clear the deck ! Strike ! while they still are dreaming !. Strike ! God shall nerve, shall guide the hand r Strike for the rights He gave your land, To live as men, not minions 1 Go hurl the despots back to Hell, Let manhood break the slavish spell, Fretting the soul s free pinions. Then, comrades, lift the fallen yards, Firm by the helm ! high o er ye, guards r For aye, that sign in glory : The din, the clash, the conflict comes, And louder call the echoing drums God ! write us free in story ! DIXIE COTTAGE, TAPPAHANNOCK, VA., March 25^, 1867. PAGE BBOOK. 391 BY DE. F. O. TICKNOB, GEOEGIA. THEEE is dust on the doorway, there is mould on the wall, There s a chill at the hearthstone, a hush through the hall, And the stately old mansion stands darkened and cold, By the leal loving hearts that it sheltered of old No light at the lattice, no smile at the door, No cheer at its table, no dance on its floor, But "glory departed," and silence alone! Dust unto dust, upon pillar and stone ! No laughter of childhood, no shout on the lawn, No footstep to echo the feet that are gone, Feet of the beautiful, form of the brave ; Failing in other lands, gone to the grave ! No anthem of praises, no hymn rising clear, No song at the bridal, no wail at the bier, All the chords of its symphonies scattered and riven, Its altar in ashes ! Its incense in Heaven ! Tis life s deepest sadness, thus lonely to stand Mid the wreck of a HOME, once the pride of the land, Its chambers unfilled as its children depart, The melody stilled in its desolate heart. Yet softly the sunshine still rests on the grass, And lightly and swiftly the cloud shadows pass, 392 THE SOUTHERN AMAKANTH. And still the broad meadow exults in the sheen, "With its foam-crests of snow and its billows of green. And the verdure shall creep to the mouldering walls And the sunlight shall sleep in the desolate halls, And the foot of the pilgrim shall find to the last, Some fragrance of home in the shrine of the past THL LAND WE LOVE. A CHEISTMAS LAY. MBS. MABGABET J. PBESTON. AH ! the happy Christmas times ! Times we all remember ; Times that flung a ruddy glow O er the gray December ; Will they never come again, "With their song and story ? Never wear a remnant more Of their olden glory ? Must the little children miss Still the festive token? Must their realm of young romance All be marred and broken ? Must the mother promise on, While her smiles dissemble, And she speaks right quietly, Lest her voice should tremble : "Darlings ! wait till father comes "Wait and we ll discover WHEN THE WAR IS OVER. 393 Never were such Christmas times, When the war is over." II. Underneath the midnight sky, Bright with starry beauty, Sad, the shivering sentinel Treads the round of duty : For his thoughts are far away, Far from strife and battle, As he listens dreamingly, To his baby s prattle ; As he clasps his sobbing wife Wild with sudden gladness, Kisses all her tears away Chides her looks of sadness Talks of Christmas nights to come, And his step grows lighter, Whispering, while his stiffening hand Grasps his musket tighter ; " Patience, love ! keep heart ! keep hope I To your weary rover, What a home our home will be When the war is over !" Ill By the twilight Christmas fire, All her senses laden With a weight of tenderness, Sits the musing maiden ; From the parlor s cheerful blaze, Far her visions wander, To the white-tent gleaming bright 394: THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. On tlie hill-side yonder. Buoyant in her brave young love, Flushed with patriot honor, No misgiving, no fond fear Flings its shade upon her. Though no mortal soul can know Half the love she bears him, Proudly, for her country s sake, From her heart she spares him. God be thanked ! she does not dream That her gallant lover Will be in a soldier s grave When the war is over ! IY. Midst the turmoil and the strife Of the war- tides rushing Every heart its separate woe In its depths is crushing. Who has time for tears, when blood All the land is steeping ? In our poverty we grudge Even the waste of weeping ! But when quiet comes again, And the bands, long broken, Gather round the hearth, and breathe Names now seldom spoken Then we ll miss the precious links, Mourn the empty places, Bead the hopeless " Nevermore " In each other s faces ! Oh ! what aching, anguished hearts O er lone graves will hover, CHRISTMAS, 1863 395 With a new, fresh sense of pam When the war is over ! Y. Stern endurance, bitterer still, Sharp with self-denial, Fraught with loftier sacrifice, Fuller far of trial- Strews our flinty path of thorns, Marks our bloody story Fits us for the victor s palm, Weaves our robes of glory ! Shall we faint with God above, And His strong arm under, And the cold world gazing on, In a maze of wonder ? No ! with more resistless march, More resolved endeavor, Press we onward struggle still, Fight and win forever ! Holy peace will heal all ills, Joy all losses cover, Raptures rend our Southern skies, When the war is over. 1863. BY HENBY TIMKOD. How grace this hallowed day ? Shall happy bells from yonder ancient spire, Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fire Round which the children play ? 396 THE SOUTHEBN AMARANTH. Alas for many a morn, That tongueless * tower hath cleaved the Sabbath air, Mute obelisk of ice, aglare Beneath the Arctic moon. Shame to the foes that drown Our psalms of worship with their impious drum I The sweetest chimes in all the land lie dumb In some far rustic town. There let us think they keep Of the dead yules, which here beside the sea They ve ushered in with old world English glee, Some echoes in their sleep. How shall we grace the day ? "With feast and song and dance, and antique sports, And shouts of happy children in the courts, And tales of ghost and fay ? Is there indeed a door Where the old pastimes, with their cheerful noise, And all the merry round of Christmas joys, Could enter as of yore ? Would not some pallid face Look in upon the banquet, calling up Dread shapes of battle in the wassail cup, And trouble all the place ? * St. Michael s, the oldest church in the United States. The chime of bells was imported before the ^Revolution of 1776. CHRISTMAS, 1863. 397 How could we bear the mirth, "While some loved reveller of a year ago Keeps his mute Christmas now, beneath the snow In cold Virginia earth ? How shall ye grace the day ? Ah 1 let the thought that on this holy morn The Prince of Peace, the Prince of Peace was born, Employ us while we pray. Pray for the peace, which long Hath left this tortured land, and haply now Holds its white court on some far mountain s brow There, hardly safe from wrong. Let e yery sacred fane Call its sad votaries to the shrine of God, And with the cloister and the tented sod Join in the solemn strain ! With pomp of Eoman form, "With the grave ritual brought from England shore ; And with the simple faith which asks no more Than that the heart be warm. He, who till time shall cease Shall watch that earth where once not all in vain He died to give us peace, will not disdain A prayer, whose theme is peace. Perhaps, ere yet the Spring Hath died unto the Summer over all The land, the peace of His vast love shall fall Like some protecting wing. 398 THE SOUTHERN AMARAXTH. Oh ! ponder what it means ! Oh ! turn the rapturous thought in every way, Oh ! give the vision and the fancy play, And shape the coming scene. Peace in the quiet dells, Made rankly fertile by the blood of men, Peace in the wood and in the lonely glen, Peace in the peopled vale ; Peace in the crowded town, Peace in the thousand fields of waving grain, Peace in the highway and the flowery lane Peace on the wind-swept down. Peace on the farthest seas, Peace in our sheltered bays and ample streams, Peace where er our starry garland gleams, And peace in every breeze. Peace on the whirring marts, Peace where the scholar thinks, the hunter roams Peace ! God of peace I peace, peace in all our homes, And peace in all our hearts ! BY MBS. FANNY DOWNING. MERRY old Christmas has come again, With plenty of pleasure, naught of pain ; Joy and mistletoe round his head, And shining holly with berries red. THE HOLLY AXD CYFBE8S. 399 Happy and hearty, and full of glee, The king of jolly good fellows is he, Jovial and joyous, we all agree, So goodly a Christmas we never did see ! Hark ! hear his sleigh-bells jingle and shake, Listen what music his reindeer make ! As down on the pavement, and up the roof, They daintily patter with delicate hoof. Hear how he chirrups, and sings, and laughs ; See how he sparkles, and shouts, and quaffs From his foaming flagon a health to all ! Mark how his fairy favors fall A sceptre and crown, A mitre and gown, A ring and a ribbon oome fluttering down, And what wealth untold Of the rare, red gold, From his lavish treasure is richly rolled! Happy and hearty, and full of glee, The king of jolly good fellows is he, Kindly and cordial, and blithe and free, Jovial and joyous, we all agree, So goodly a Christmas we never did see I So sings the world, with its blatent mouth j In it not of it the stately South, Folding her mantle around to hide The gaping wound in her quivering side, Listens in silence, then makes reply : Such is your portion, but what have I ? Desolate homes and a blighted land, Sackcloth and ashes, and blade and brand, Grinding pressure beyond appeal, 400 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Throng of scorpions and yoke of steel I Bitter bereavement and pitiless pain, Only my honor and truth remain ! Vanish d the Christmas I knew of yore, Empty the garners, stolen the store ; Perish d the treasure, broken the band, "Which master and servant, with heart and hand, Softened and brightened at Christmas fair, Till the links of the chain lay light as air. Links of the chain ! Ah ! the bitterest grief Lies in the lot of my captive chief: Prison d in bars, like a felon thing, He on whose brow God has written " KING." Shackled, insulted, tortured and tried, Still, as a star in the firmament wide, Circled with shadows, vapors and night, Draws from their contrast lovelier light ; He, through his grief, shines with heavenlier ray, Bright and more bright to the perfect day ! Festal holly, your wreath may be, Only the cypress crown for me ! Can any sorrow with mine compare ? Shall I not perish in weak despair ? No ! in my misery s very excess, Find I strength and power to bless ; Leaving my present and future state All to the God of the desolate ; Knowing his promises, firm and sure, Like the rock-ribbed frame of the earth endure. Keeping his watchword, happen what must, " Though He slay me, yet will I trust I" And as the Magi monarchs of old, STORM: AND CALM. 401 Brought to the manger, spices and gold : I, and my children, bring offerings sweet, And lay them low at our Maker s feet, We proffer the gold of a purer faith, The myrrh of love, and the spicy breath Of thankfulness, for the Christmas gift Of the Prince of Peace, and grateful lift Our hearts to His throne, as we humbly pray For the peace " which passeth not away." THE LAND WE LOVE. BY HENBT TIMBOD. SWEET are the kisses of the South, As dropped from woman s rosiest mouth, And tenderer are those azure skies Than this world s tenderest pair of eyes ! But ah ! beneath such influence, Thought is too often lost in Sense ; And Action, faltering as we thrill, Sinks in the unnerved arms of Will Awake, thou stormy North, and blast The subtle spells around us cast ; Beat from our limbs these flowery chains With the sharp scourges of thy reins 1 Bring with thee from thy Polar cave. All the wild songs of wind and wave, Of toppling berg and grinding floe, And the dread avalanche of snow. 402 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. "Wrap us in Arctic night and clouds ! Yell like a fiend amid the shrouds Of some slow-sinking vessel, when He hears the shrieks of drowning men I Blend in thy mighty voice what er Of danger, terror and despair Thou hast encountered in thy sweep Across the land and o er the deep. Pour in our ears all notes of woe, That as these very moments flow, Rise like a harsh discordant psalm, While we lie here in tropic calm. Smiting our weak hearts with bitter shame, Bear us along with thee like flame : And prove that even to destroy More Grodlike may be than to toy And rust or rot in idle joy ! SOUTHERN OPINION. ? BY WALKER MERRIWEATHER BELL, OF KENTUCKY. "Now welcome the summer, and welcome my Willie The summer to nature, my Willie to me." BURNS. RING out a joyous welcome, A glad and wild refrain, Your scented bells, ye hyacinths ; My lord has come again. Come forth, shy valley lilies, With all your silver urns, WELCOME HOME. 403 Filled with their choicest incense My soldier love returns. Pearls of the pendant snow- drop, Round which the wild bee hums, And lightly bending blue-bells, Look up, he comes ! he conies ! Lift, sorrowful Narcissus, That pale, sweet face of thine ; Forget the beauty of thy love, To gaze awhile on mine. Oh, queenly rose be gracious ! A boon of thee I crave, Blush out in all thy beauty, To welcome back the brave ; For ere her time, the lily, Has reared her stately head ; And, like a snowy banner, Her broad white petals spread. The fuchsias waving welcome, Sway on their slender stems ; And gold and purple pansies, Strew at his feet their gems ! While still the violet lingers, Her green leaves peeping through Unwilling, till she sees him, To shut her eyes of blue. Sound all your fiery clarions, Oh, warlike trumpet- vine Ye thickly twining jessamines And shadowy woodbine. 404 THE SOUTHEEN AMARANTH. Swing out your crimson torches, Your white and golden stars, To light my warrior s footsteps, Eeturning from the wars. Ye passion-hearted tulips, Bloom gorgeously around ; And at his feet, tall poppies, Fling all your bright leaves down. Oh, linger, sweet spring blossoms, And lengthen out your prime, And all ye summer flowerets, Come forth before your time. Let all things bright and beautiful, In nature, be abroad, To smile with me, and welcome back,. My soldier love, my lord ! METBOPOUTAN KECOED. THE battle-cry and cannon s roar are hushed To peaceful sounds ; Stayed is the rapid, crimson tide, that gushed On battle grounds. The warring hosts, that once in conflict met, Have homeward gone ; Peace reigns through all the Southern lands, but yet The war goes on. Where once a woman s cry for help was heard In piteous notes, THE WAR GOES ON. 405 In woodland groves the music of the bird Harmonious floats. The smoke of burning homes, that hid the sun, Is swept away ; The sunbeams o er a landscape waste and dun Serenely play. The snowy flag that thousands swore to keep, No longer sways ; The stalwart forms that once upheld it, sleep In unknown graves ; And Stone wall s fiery soul rests glory wreathed In still abode ; And he who led the Southern arms, has sheathed His stainless sword. -On Appomattox s field, the victor said, " The war must cease." The winged winds the joyous tidings spread And whispered, " Peace I" Awhile the widow s tears and orphan s ceased to flow: " The war is done," From Congress Halls, a wild voice answers, " JSTo !" " The war goes on !" The war goes on against a stricken land, All drenched in blood ! Her few surviving sons cannot withstand Oppression s flood. They, who to save their country s honop tried, The good the brave Sleep in the soil for which they fought and died, But could not save. 406 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH, See, then, the valiant hosts arrayed to strike A prostrate foe ! Their leaders in blind fury, raving like The fiends below. Thersites, right and left his venom flinging On all the good The voice of Paris through the Senate ringing,, Calling for blood. Warriors that on their country s battle-fields Have never trod, Priest of a horrid faith that homage yields To an ebon God ! Statesmen, whose highest aim it is to be, Successful knaves ; Lovers of freedom, who the black make free, And white men slaves ! Well may the Keystone State in silence weep, And veil her face In shame, that on her head, her sons should heap Such foul disgrace. Her HERO S praise let Massachusetts sing In praises sweet ; But patriots b]ush to see this poor, vile thing, In Webster s seat Must Freedom, Honor, Justice, Law and all We hold most dear, Assailed in this unholy warfare, fall And disappear ? THE JACKET OF GKET. 407 No ! Freedom s voice to all her sons proclaim : " Defend the right !" Drive demagogues from earth, and sink their names In endless night. OLD GUAKD. BY MRS. C. A. BALL, SOUTH CAROLINA. FOLD it up carefully, lay it aside, Tenderly touch it, look on it with pride For dear must it be to our hearts evermore, The Jacket of Grey our loved soldier boy wore. Can we forget when he joined the brave band, Who rose in defence of our dear Southern land, And, in his bright youth hurried on to the fray How proudly he donned it, the Jacket of Grey? His fond mother blessed him, and looked up above, Commending to Heaven the child of her love ; What anguish was hers, mortal tongue may not say, When he passed from our sight, in the Jacket of Grey. But her country had called and she would not repine, Though costly the sacrifice placed on the shrine, Her heart s dearest hopes on the altar she lay, When she sent out her boy in the Jacket of Grey. Months passed ; and war s thunders rolled over the land, Unsheathed was the sword and lighted the brand ; 408 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. "We heard in the distant the sounds of the fray, When she sent out her boy in the Jacket of Grey. Ah ! vain, all vain, were onr prayers and our tears ; The glad shout of victory rang in our ears, But our treasured one on the red battle field lay While the life-blood oozed out on the Jacket of Grey. His young comrades found him, and tenderly bore The cold, lifeless form to his home by the shore. Oh ! dark were our hearts on that terrible day When we saw our dead boy in the Jacket of Grey. Ah ! spotted, and tattered and stained now with gore Was the garment which once he so proudly wore ; We bitterly wept as we took it away, And replaced with death s white robes, his Jacket of Grey. We laid him to rest in his cold, narrow bed, And graved on the marble we placed o er his head, As the proudest of tributes our sad hearts could pay, " He never disgraced the JACKET OF GEEY !" Then fold it up carefully, lay it aside, Tenderly touch it, look on it with pride For dear must it be, to our hearts evermore The Jacket of Grey, our soldier boy wore. DOFFING THE GREY. 409 BY LIEUTENANT FAI/LIGANT, SAVANNAH, GEO. OFF with your grey suits, boys Off with your rebel gear They smack too much of the cannon s 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 the 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 to the dust where their forms are laid, And down with Liberty ! 410 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Respectfully Dedicated, to the Knights of the Shears. BY VIRGINIA MADISON. (S. A. BEOCK. ) " COME out that grey !" a Yankee cried ; " Excuse me, r Johnny Eeb replied, "For I have nought to wear beside " And his jacket quickly buttons. " That liver} is disallowed, The Yankee lustily avowed, But Johnny most profoundly bowed, And fingered at his buttons. Nonplussed, the Yankee shook his head, And furious frowned, (discomfited,) "If you won t doff that grey" he said, " Why then, I ll take your buttons I" The rarest fun that e er was seen On " Terra Firma, was, I ween, "When came the order startling keen To cut off Rebel buttons. Where er a grey-lade, showed his face, On the street or in the market-place, A Ya.nkee armed at once gave chase, To cut off his brass buttons I Poor Johnny Eeb ! what could he do But tremble, and repentant view The flashing shears and knife so new, For cutting off his buttons ? CUTTING OFF THE BUTTONS. 411 And like a lamb to slaughter led, At once he bowed Ms vanquished head, " Do as you will," he meekly said, And " farewell, my poor buttons I" Alas ! poor Johnny was forlorn As Samson when his locks were shorn ; "I ll pin my jacket with a thorn, Since I m allowed no buttons ! " I ve nary a red to buy a pin, Confederate scrip is not worth tin, It is indeed a shameful sin To rob me of my buttons I " "Pis well tis summer time," groaned he, Else I might freeze and die, you see, Bereft, I am, so suddenly Of all rny jacket buttons !" " The game is up !" triumphant cried His hostile foe. " Oh no, not yet I" a voice replied, " You surely never have denied A lady, some brass buttons ?" " Why never, no !" the gallant said, And paling white and blushing red, The hero of this valorous deed Delivered up the buttons. With a merry twinkle in her eye, The lady smiled and made reply " I thank your sir ! most heartily For these poor Eebel buttons 1" 412 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. From her pocket out a twine she drew, And strung them quickly in his view, And round her neck the necklace threw And a tear dropped on the buttons. " I love these relics, for they tell How long our poor boys fought, and well The story makes my proud heart swell, The story in these buttons!" And galvanized they now appear, Adorning many a shell-like ear, Of certain girls who dare to wear These precious, proscribed buttons, A brooch their spotless collar pins, Burnished, until like gold it shines, You ll see them all along " the lines," The Eebel girls in buttons. " Oppressed by might, and want and care, Meekly subdued " the " mm," we hear, But bravely, and without a fear, The women wear the buttons. METBOPOLITAN KECOBD. THE CONFEDERATE BILL. 413 BY MAJOR S. A. JONAS,* LOUISIANA. The following lines were found written on the back of a five hun dred dollar Confederate note. KEPRESENTING nothing on God s earth now, And naught in the water below it ; As a pledge of a nation that s dead and gone, Keep it dear friend, and show it. Show it to those who will lend an ear To the tale this paper can tell, Of liberty born, of the patriot s dream, Of the storm-cradled nation that fell. Too poor to possess the precious ores, And too much of a stranger to borrow, We issued to-day our promise to pay, And hoped to redeem on to-morrow. The days rolled on, and weeks became years, But our coffers were empty still ; Coin was so rare that the treasury quaked If a dollar should drop in the till. But the faith that was in us was strong indeed, And our poverty well discerned ; And these little checks represented the pay, That our suffering volunteers earned. * Chief Engineer of General S. D. Lee s staff. 414: THE SOUTHERN AMAltANTH. We knew it had hardly a value in gold, Yet as gold our soldiers received it, It gazed in our eyes with a promise to pay, And each patriot soldier believed it But our boys thought little of price or pay, Or of bills that were over due ; "We knew if it brought us bread to-day, It was the best our poor country could da Keep it it tells our history over, From the birth of its dream to the last ; Modest, and born of the angel of Hope, Like the hope of success it has passed. BY A. J. EEQUIEE. FOLD up the gorgeous, silken sun, By bleeding martyrs blest, And keep the laurels it has won Above its place of rest. ~No trumpet s note need harshly blare ISTo drum-funereal roll Nor trailing sables drape the bier That frees a dauntless soul ! It lived with Lee, and arched his brow From Fate s empyreal palm : It sleeps the sleep of Jackson now, As spotless and as calm. ASHES OF GLOIIY. 415 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 ; Nor all that antique fables feign, And Orient streams 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 might, And be thy blazoned scroll A warrior s banner takes its flight To greet the warrior s soul I METBOPOUTAN RECORD. 416 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY H. L. FLASH. FOUR stormy years we saw it gleam, A people s hope and then refurled, Even while its glory was the theme Of half the world. The beacon that, with streaming ray, Dazzled a struggling nation s sight, Seeming a pillar of cloud by day, Of fire by night. They jeer, who trembled as it hung. Comet-like, blazoning the sky ; And heroes, such as Homer sung, Followed it to die. It fell but stainless at it rose, Martyred like Stephen, in the strife ; Passing, like him, girdled with foes, From death to life. Fame s trophy, sanctified by tears, Planted forever at her portal ; Folded, true what then? four short years Made it immortal. THE BLESSED HAND. 417 Eespecifully Dedicated to the Ladies oftTie SoutTiern Relief Fair, Baltimore. BY S. TEACKLE WALMS. There is a legend of an English monk who died at the monastery of Aremburg, where he had gone and illuminated many books, hop ing to be rewarded in Heaven. Long after his death his tomb was opened, and nothing could be seen of his remains but the right hand with which he had done his pious work, and which had been mirac ulously preserved from decay. FOR you and me who love the light Of God s -unclouded day, It were indeed a dreary lot, To shut ourselves away From every glad and sunny thing, And pleasant sight and sound, And pass from out a silent cell, Into the silent ground. Not so the good monk Anselm, thought, For, in his cloister s shade, The cheerful faith that lit his heart Its own sweet sunshine made ; And in its glow he prayed and wrote From matin-song till even, And trusted in the Book of Life To read his name in Heaven, What holy books his gentle art Filled full of saintly lore 1 "What pages brightened by his hand The splendid missals bore ! 418 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. What blossoms almost fragrant-twined Around each blessed name, And how his Saviour s cross and crown Shone out from cloud of flame ! But unto clerk as unto clown, One summons comes alway, And Brother Anselm heard the call, At vesper chime, one day. His busy pen was in his hand, His parchment by his side He bent him o er the half- writ prayer, Kissed Jesus name, and died ! They laid him where a window s blaze Flashed o er the graven stone, And seemed to touch his simple name, With pencil like his own ; And there he slept and one by one, His brothers died, the while, And trooping years went by, and trod His name from off the aisle. And lifting up the pavement, then, An Abbot s couch to spread, They let the jewelled sunlight in Where once lay Anselm s head. No crumbling bone was there, no trace Of human dust that told, But all alone, a warm right hand Lay, fresh upon the mould. It was not stiff as dead men s are, But, with a tender clasp, THE CONFEDERATE FLAG. 419 It seemed to hold an unseen hand Within its living grasp, And ere the trembling monks could turn To hide their dazzled eyes, It rose as with a sound of wings, Eight up into the skies ! Oh, loving open hands, that give ; Soft hands, the tear that dry ; Oh, patient hands that toil to bless ; How can ye, ever die ! Ten thousand vows from yearning hearts To Heaven s own gate shall soar, And bear you up. as Anselm s hand Those unseen angels bore ! Kind hands ! oh, never, near to you May come the woes ye heal ! Oh, never may the hearts ye guard, The griefs ye comfort, feel ! May He, in whose sweet name ye build, So crown the work ye rear, That ye may never clasped be, In one unanswered prayer ! BALUMOBE, April 8t7i, 1867. No more o er human hearts to wave, Its tattered folds forever furled : We laid it in an honored grave, And left its memories to the world. 420 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. The agony of long, long years, May, in a moment, be compressed, And with a grief too deep for tears, A heart may be oppressed. Oh ! there are those who die too late For faith in God, and Eight, and Truth,- The cold, mechanic grasp of Fate Hath crushed the roses of their youth, Hore blessed are the dead who fell Beneath it in unfaltering trust, Than we, who loved it passing well, Yet lived to see it trail in dust It hath no future which endears, And this farewell shall be our last : Embalm it in a nation s tears, And consecrate it to the past ! The mouldering hands that to it clung, And flaunted it in hostile faces, To pulseless arms that round it flung, The terror of their last embraces To our dead heroes to the hearts That thrill no more to love or glory, To those who acted well their parts, Who died in youth and live in glory With tears forever be it told, Until oblivion covers all : Until the heavens themselves wear old, And totter slowly to their fall METBOPOLTTAN EECOBD. THE CONQUERED BANNER. 4:21 Published first in the New York Freeman s Journal. BTMOINA. (FATHER RYAN.) FUEL that banner ! for tis weary, Hound its staff tis drooping dreary j Furl it, fold it, it is best ; For there s not a man to wave it, And there s not a sword to save it, And there s not one left to lave it, In the blood that heroes gave it ; And its foes now scorn and brave it, Furl it, hide it, let it rest ! Take the banner down, tis tattered ; Broken is its staff and shattered, And the valiant hosts are scattered, Over whom it floated high ; Oh, tis hard for us to fold it, Hard to think there s 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 ten thousand hailed it gladly, And ten thousands wildly, madly, Swore it should forever wave Swore that freeman s sword could never, Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, Till that flag should float forever O er their freedom or their grave ! 422 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Furl it ! for the hands that grasped it,, And the hearts that fondly clasped it,. Cold and dead are lying low ; And that banner it is trailing "While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe. For though conquered, they adore it, Love the cold, dead hands that bore it^ "Weep for those who fell before it, Pardon those who trailed and tore it, And oh ! wildly they deplore it, Now to fold and furl it so. Furl that banner ! true tis gory, Yet tis wreathed around with glory, And twill live in song and story, Though its folds are in the dust ; For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down through ages^ Furl its folds, though now we must Furl that banner ! softly, slowly ; Treat it gently, it is holy For it droops above the dead. Touch it not, unfurl it never, Let it droop there, furled forever, For its people s hopes are dead I KEEP IT STILL, 428 it Still tyy &)?*>*>*** A EEPLY TO THE CONQUERED BANNER. BY SIR HENKY DE HOGHTON, OF ENGLAND. GALLANT Nation foiled by numbers, Say not that your hopes are fled ; Keep that glorious Flag that slumbers, One day, to avenge your dead. Keep it, widows sonless mothers, Keep it, sisters, mourning brothers ; Keep it with an iron will Think not that its work is done, Noble banner, keep it still. Keep it, till your children take it Once again to wave, and make it, All their sires have bled and fought for, All their noble souls have wrought for ; Bled and fought for all alone ! " All alone," aye shame the story, Millions here deplore the stain, Shame, alas ! for England s glory, Freedom called, and called in vain. Purl that Banner, sadly, slowly, Treat it gently for tis holy Till that day, yes, furl it sadly, Then once more unfurl it gladly, 1 CONQUERED BANNER" keep it Still f NEW YOBK FBF.KMAN S JOURNAL. 424 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. THO3HAS DUNN ENGLISH, M. D., NEW LOST ! wherefore lost ? That is not lost forever, ~W hich yields to numbers on the field of blood : For truth has many fields for her endeavor Seas in their ebb can wait the hour of flood. Worn out by contest with a myriad foemen, If champions grow exhausted and despair, What then if on some cloudy day the gnomon Points not the hour the dial still is there. The clouds will pass the skies, not always shrouded, Will gleam with glory, though to-day they lower, And then the dial, never more enshrouded, Will mark, and plainly mark, the triumph hour. Lost ! wherefore lost ? Tis not because in battle Its friends were routed by o erthronging foes, Not mid the cannon s roar and musket s rattle, Truth only deals its most effective blows. No cause is lost, that, in itself, has merit, Because its champions to brute-force succumb The sons, with pride, the fathers wrongs inherit, And they will speak tis only brutes are dumb. The surest weapon is not gun or sabre, Cannon, nor rifle, when for truth we fight : A few fit words surpass the idiot s jabber, Tongue, pen, and press, are potent for the right THE LOST CAUSE. 425 Not always Sisyphus may fail, and glorious The hour that witnesses his labors o er ; Let him roll on, he yet will be victorious, And oh the summit rest to toil no more. Lost ! what is lost ? The lives, the gold, the labor Of thousands, given for four long, weary years ! The story goes from neighbor unto neighbor, From sire to son, bat is not told with tears. It is not told with shame, nor heard with terror, How, for a principle, a people fought; Not in the cause, there lay the evident error, But in the mode by which the end was sought Ballots as weapons are than bullets surer, As will be proven ere the strife is done : Truth, by discussion, finds her throne securer The council closes what the sword began. Lost ! never lost ! a cause when those who love it, Laugh at misfortune, and reverse defy, Loses no hope when falsehood sits above it, It may be wounded, but it cannot die. But yesterday the Austrian ruled in Venice : To-day, he sullen fires his parting gun ; Appeal to reason, and abandon menace, Time, firmness, patience, and the cause is won. OLD GUAED. 426 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. jf 00? S01t BY DE. F. O. TICKNOR. " TRUE ! O KING." YEARS of his Freedom- TWO ! And a shivering phantom stands With the firelight flickering through His gaunt and wasted hands. " Home !" and he bowed his head "With a low and wailing cry ; Ah ! not for shelter and not for bread, Only a place to DIE. To die at the master s feet, Out of the scourging storm, "Where the winds might never beat Where Tom lay ever warm ; Till Freedom, the pitiless, Fell from the cruel sky, And the bitterness of his nakedness Made TOM so glad to DIE ! Oh ! had these arms the pith Of just two years ago, Wrecked in the wrestle with Yon wilderness of woe ! TOM S love would bring the light Back to his master s eye But the blood in his heart is cold to-night, And he only comes to DIE ! Was it ever so many years, Or only yesterday, That master, among his peers Went bravest, with TOM, the gay ? THE MAGIC LAMP. 427 Before the " locust" and " hail," Or only an hour gone by, That Freedom fell with a flail On TOM, and made him DIE ! Of the dear old days, so sweet Does master dream as he sits Till the w r eariness of his feet Seems wandering in his wits ; Till yesterday seems so dim, And the far-away so nigh, That his head goes all a swim, And his heart is faint to DIE ! POOR TOM ! For a hundred years Your blood has coursed by mine ; Were there warmth in bitter tears, There should not lack the brine : DYING ! I know it well, As I know the signs on high The tokens that grimly tell, Out of the STORM, twere well BOTH of us, TOM, to DIE ! BY MISS M. L. MEANAY, PHILADELPHIA. OLD, yet forever new, the tale By Eastern princes wisely told, Of an obscure and humble youth Who owned no wealth of lands or gold. One treasure one alone was his ; It bore no royal signet stamp, No glittering gems, no proud device Twas but a rough, unpolished lamp. 428 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. In stranger eyes a worthless thing, Yet to Aladdin power it gave Beyond the grandest monarch s reach, And fortune made his willing slave : Cheering with magic ray his toil, It stood his servant and his guide, And brighter grew its wondrous charm. The more his wishes multiplied. He asked for riches every scheme Was like a princely argosy, "Whose precious freight around him flowed In streams exhaustless to the sea ; Friends and they thronged about his path ; Fatterers they rose at every turn ; JLove, fame, he had them all ; his heart For not one boon denied, could yearn. JBut in his new born pride of power, With blessings waiting for his clasp, The patient genius of his fate, Unprized, forgotten was at last Where now his honors, wealth and power, All he had proudly deemed his own ? Wildly he hastened to redeem His lamp in vain ! the charm is gone. Columbia ! thine the Magic Lamp Whose steady ray hath wonders wrought, Transcending far the wildest dreams In Oriental legend taught. What though an infant nation poor, Obscure, and deemed of little worth, THE MAGIC LAMP. 429 Soon Freedom s bright and cheering beam Made thee cynosure of the earth. Its lights gleamed forth in brilliance strange, And floated round thy starry iiag, It made thy poorest valley smile, And gilded every rugged crag ; Its halo played around thy name, Attracting millions from afar, Till envious nations paled before The dazzling radiance of thy star. But in the zenith of thy fame, nation favored most of Heaven ! Forgotten is the priceless trust That to thy guardian care was given : The sacred fire thou shouldst have watched With more than vestal love and pride, Burns dim and low, its waning ray Now turns to darkness by thy side. Oh ! rouse thee from thy fatal dream, Kindle anew that holy flame, Let not the light of Liberty Die out in hopeless grief and shame. Once gone, a paltry counterfeit Though despot nations gladly stamp Approval, will thy anguish mock ; Thou lt find no more thy Magic Lamp ! 430 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Co w Written for the New York Freeman s Journal, BY MOINA. (BET. ABBAM j. KYAN.) MY brow is bent beneath a heavy rod ! My face is wan and white with many woes, But I will lift my poor, chained hands to God, And for my children pray and for my foes. Beside the graves where thousands lowly lie I kneel and weeping for each slaughtered son I turn my gaze to my own sunny sky, And pray, Oh ! Father, may Thy will be done. My heart is filled with anguish deep and vast-; My hopes are buried with my children s dust, My joys have fled my tears are flowing fast ; In whom, save Thee, our Father, shall I trust ? Ah ! I forgot Thee, Father, long and oft, When I was happy, rich, and proud, and free ; But conquered now, and crushed, I look aloft, And sorrow leads me, Father, back to Thee. Amid the wrecks that mark the freeman s path I kneel and wailing o er my glories gone, I still each thought of hate, each throb of wrath, And whisper Father, let Thy will be done. Pity me, Father of the Desolate ! Alas ! my burdens are too hard to bear ; Look down in mercy on my wretched fate, And keep me, guard me with Thy loving care. A PRAYER OF THE SOUTH. 431 Pity me, Father ! for His holy sake Whose broken Heart bled at the feet of Grief, That hearts of earth, wherever they shall break, Might go to His and find a sure relief. Ah, me ! how dark ! Is this a brief eclipse ? Or is it Night with no To-morrow s Sun ? Oh ! Father ! with my pale sad lips, And sadder heart, I pray Thy will be done. My homes are joyless and a million mourn Where many met in joys forever flown ; Whose hearts were light, are burdened now and lorn, Where many smiled, but one is left to mourn. And ah ! the widows wails, the orphans cries, Are morning hymn, and vesper chant, to me ; And groans of men, and sounds of women s sighs Commingle, Father, with my prayer to Thee. Beneath my feet ten thousand children dead Oh ! how I loved each known and nameless one ! Above their dust I bow my crownless head, And murmur Father ! still Thy will be done. Ah ! Father thou didst deck my own loved land With all bright charms, and beautiful, and fair; But foemen came and with a ruthless hand Spread ruin, wreck and desolation there. Girded with gloom of all my brightness shorn, And garmented with grief, I kiss Thy rod And turn my face, with tears all wet and worn, To catch a smile of pity from my God. Around me blight where all before was bloom ! And so much lost alas ! and nothing won ; 432 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Save this, that I can lean on wreck and tomb And weep and weeping pray Thy will be done. And oh ! tis hard to say but said, tis sweet The words are bitter, but they hold a balm ; A balm that heals the wounds of my defeat, And lulls my sorrow into holy calm, It is the prayer of prayers and how it brings, When heard in Heaven, peace and hope to me ; When Jesus prayed it, did not angels wings Gleam mid the darkness of Grethsemane ? My children, Father, Thy forgiveness need, Alas ! their hearts have only place for tears ; Forgive them, Father, every wrongful deed And every sin, of those four bloody years. And give them strength to bear their boundless loss, And from their hearts take every thought of hate ; And while they climb their Calvary with their Cross, Oh ! help them, Father, to endure its weight And for my Dead, my Father, may I pray ? Ah ! sighs may soothe, but prayers shall soothe me more ! I keep eternal watch above their clay Oh ! rest their souls my Father, I implore I Forgive my foes they know not what they do Forgive them all the tears they made me shed ; Forgive them though my noblest sons they slew, And bless them, though they curse my poor, dear Dead 1 CONSTITUTION IN MEMOKIAM. 433 Oil ! may my woes be each a carrier dove, With swift, white wings, that, battling with my tears, "Will bear Thee, Father, all my prayers of love, And bring me peace, in all my doubts and fears. Father, I kneel amid ruin, wreck and grave, A desert waste where all was erst so fair ; And for my children and my foes I crave Pity and pardon Father ! hear my prayer ! IN MEMORIAM. BY H. BALLARD. LIE there bedraggled and decried, Thou poor dishonored scroll, Though once the freeman s hope and pride ; The soldier s bannerol ; In which the sovereign nations set Their will with magic pen, And every speaking tint seems yet The blood of patriot men. Illumed by Marshall s static lore, From Taney s truth more bright, Till thou wert as the Ark before The wandering Israelite ; And as the Ark encircled wall, Before their shout went down, Thy mandate shook the tyrants thrall, His sceptre and his crown. 434 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. But virtue sunk in false repose, . The martyr s blood in clay, And pristine truths like virgin snows, Passed, like the snows, away, False tenets then and falser hearts, But ! twere long to tell How severed in a hundred parts, The Chart of freemen fell. But time shall tell, till time is over, How old Virginia stood, And from a hundred fields and more, Eepelled the vandal flood Then backward borne, though battling yet, She seized her bannered shroud, And in a blaze of glory set Behind a crimson cloud METROPOLITAN KECOED. BY PAUL H. HAYNE. No longer shall the darksome cloud Of Northern Hate and Envy shroud The radiance of our Poets proud. They come, a glorious band, to claim The guerdon of their poet-fame Their brows with heavenly light aflame ! * It was not possible, in accordance with the scope and design of this poem, to introduce the many gifted female poets of the South. Such an introduction would have extended the piece to an unreason- able length. THE SOUTHERN LYRE. 435 That Mystic Bard whose k Eaven" broods, Broods sternly, o er his solemn moods, His weird, funereal solitudes ; Whose genius lives in realms of Blight, Yet oft towards the Infinite Essays to rise on wings, of might : Who sought the nether gulfs profound, Deep as Thought s daring plummet s sound A lurid spirit, wildly crowned With bays of supernatural bloom Yet, flashing from his wizard tomb An Angel s glory through the gloom ! ALLSTON ! o er whose illustrious way Two Muses shed their separate ray, Each struggling for the regal sway : Painting and Poesy ! he won From both, ere yet his race was run, The plaudit of a deep " well done !" Here PINCKNEY ! with his lyric glow, His delicate nature s happy flow Of fancies, whiter than the snow, But warm as sunshine ; lilies sweet, And roses, in a wreath complete, Above his genial forehead meet ! And He, whose rugged presence shows A soul whereon the tempest blows, Have left at last a stern repose J^^\ B R A^p*w f " OF THE ^^ I UNIVERSITY ; 436 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Whose songs, with weightiest meanings fraught^ And trenchant measures, strongly wrought In strains of olden English thought, Please not our fancy s lighter hour, But fair with health, and rife with power, Rain round us in a fruitful shower ! " Poet of Woodlands !" men will see More clearly what they owned in Thee When thou, oh Bard ! hast ceased to be I And WILDE ! his polished numbers glide SJerenely ; on that roseate tide, A hundred charmed Fancies ride, Like golden shallops o er a stream Of fairy -land ; how gently seem Affection s moon-like rays to gleam Across his manly brow, who sung " My Father," with a trembling tongue, And tears from heart-deep memories wrung I And PIKE ! whose Muse a sylvan maid Thro all the woodland haunts hath strayed, Fair Dian of the Western glade ! And GRAYSON ! with his vein clear-hued, Chaste, purely classic, and imbued With those rare graces that bedewed The style of Goldsmith ! his mild brow, Whereon such temperate lustres glow, Seems shrinking from the laurel bough. THE SOUTHEKN LYRE. 437 "We fain would place ~* * * CRAFTS! the gay, Glad genius, in whose sparkling lay His soul burst outward, . like a day Of earliest spring-time. MEEK ! who dwells Far in the misty forest dells And, at the somewhat turbid wells Of Indian lore, his fancy slakes "With SIMONS, whose fresh measure wakes Boldest by tropic streams and brakes ! But lo ! our younger Minstrels rise, .High-browed, with kindling mien and eyes, Bathed in the bliss of Earth and Skies ! Not dead to us, but fair as when He charmed the listening ears of men With music from his mountain glen ; Soft threnodies from soul and brain Pierced by an inward thorn of pain Most touching in his " Florence Yane," COOKE and his Poet-Brother pass, Musing amid the autumn grass, Of rich Virginia woods ; alas, "That they twin Minstrels, bold and true Have given the waiting world so few Of those rare songs, mixed fire and dew I 438 * THE SOUTHERN AMAEANTH, But stay ! what subtle notes are these,. Borne on the fragrant Southern breeze From out the Palms ? strange witcheries Of purest Art to Genius wed, Float sweetly, grandly, overhead ; Most willingly our souls are led Thro paths of fancy, and delight, Whereon the sunshine streaming bright, Seems mingled tenderness and might I Oh, golden lays ! no common lyre Outpours those strains of love or ire, All instinct with the sacred fire I The u Call to Arms," in thrilling tone, Eings like a silver trumpet blown, For Knights to guard their Sovereign s Throne I And " Carolina," like a wail, First strikes the dubious spirit pale Then, as a keen sword smiting mail Of proof, extorts an answer clear, Twere well the sullen Foe should hear, "With echoings of a stern " Beware 1" Here, KANDALL ! with his harp that flings Fair, spray-like notes from out its strings, Blended with gentlest murmurings Of love, both sensuous and divine, Grleams with his spirit pure and fine, Like star-light thro the Poet-line I THE SOUTHERN LYRE. 439 But, fired at need by impulse high, His tender Muse can cease to sigh, Soaring in Patriot ecstasy ! There, THOMPSON ! with his scholar s mien, His front so graceful and serene, Walks calmly o er the fairy scene ; He owns whate er his Muse s part Ease, learning, tenderness and art Bright fusion of the mind and heart ! And HOPE ! whose complex measure teems, With gorgeous images, and dreams, Dreamt by the haunted sunset streams I With EEQUIEE ! on whose presence shines A splendor from Thought s inner shrines, The eye of kindred taste divines ! And FLASH ! the ardent and the bold, Whose youthful Muse is never cold, Where er her purpling wings unfold. But hark ! what stirring strain is born, Clear as a warrior s bugle horn, Resounding thro the hills at morn, To rouse his vassals from their sleep ? That burning lyric, grand and deep, Comes from the Foeman s " donjon keep," In black Fort Warren ! Freemen start To hear that call, and camp and mart Greet it with fiery leaps of heart ! 440 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And now, the Poet-throng from view Slowly recedes ; their music true Melts gently up the Heavenly Blue ! But not in empty air to die, Poet and Song have passed us by, With all their varied harmony ! Still must we make our music heard ; These genuine numbers, long deferred Full audience, shall not leave unstirred, In callous scorn, the hearts of those "Who, pondering in a cold repose, Have watched our strife with ruffian foes ! The storm must break the spring-time come ! No longer drowned by trump or drum, Truth s voice shall *waken Christendom ! * Then, with the war-cloud rolled afar, And all undimmed our natal star, Mankind SHALL know us AS WE ARE ! A people, liberal, noble, brave, And courteous to the feeblest slave, Trembling at fourscore o er his grave ! Unmoved mid battle s wild alarms Supreme in will sublime in arms Yet cultured, open to the charms THE SOUTHERN LYKE. 441 Of Beauty ! from whose genial Lyre Hath poured full oft a strain of fire, To rise in future ages higher, Unshackled by the Northman s rule, Freed from the Bigot s canting school, The maxims of the knave and fool, The genius of this youthful Land, Like some rare blossom will expand, Upflowering to the Fair and Grand ! Then Art will build her stately Fane, And Song resound from Height to Plain, Re-echoing to the Heights again ! Till, in the ripened time, shall rise, With deep, divinely -thoughtful eyes, And brow whereon the Destinies Placed even at birth, a shadowy crown, The Poet whose august renown Will smite the haughtiest natures down To homage ! from whose u golden mouth," (Fit well-spring for a World in drouth,) Outspeaks the Shakspeare of the South 1 4:42 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY A. J. REQUIER. IT was wrought by no herald, skilled in signs, To emblazon royal state, But sprung from the bristling battle lines, The flag of a nation s fate ! Its folds as white as a fleece of light, Unfurled to a maiden s prayer, And its stars, besprent upon azure, blent With the cross of a Cavalier. I dwell on its brief, heroic days So famous and yet so young ! And drink the deep, mellifluous lays That the Troubadours have sung : The ringing deed and the rampant steed, The legended shield and lance, The knights of old in their helms of gold, And the Dragons of old Romance. 1 think of its feats of high emprise, Upon land and lake and brine, Of the passionate tears and gentle sighs That" myrtle its breezy shrine ; Of Shiloh, the proud, and Richmond unbowed By missile and mire and moat ; Of the old that weep and the young that sleep Wherever its colors float ! THE ORIFLAMME. 443 And a vision comes to my melted soul Of the quenchless hate and scorn That shall burn as a river of fire, and roll From the hearts of men unborn ; Of a plighted vow, with the sword and plough, To follow the godless Huns Till Orion reel and the Bear congeal In his orbit red with suns ! And I know by the stirrings, clear and strong, Of a feeling half divine By the sight which reaches the doom of wrong Through the spirit s purest wine That its field shall glow where the tropics blow To the sea untried by tars, With Johnston s head on its snowy bed, And Jackson amongst its bars. It was wrought by no herald, skilled in signs, To emblazon royal state, But sprung from the lurid battle lines In the shock of a nation s fate ! Its folds as white as a fleece of light Unfurled to a maiden s prayer, And its stars, besprent upon azure, blent the cross of a Cavalier. f 0*m TO THE CONFEDERATE TWILIGHT AT HOLLYWOOD. BY INNIS EANDOLPH. TO-DAY our maidens gathered here to strew The early flowers upon the soldiers graves, In their sweet custom -; and at early morn, Hither they came with blossoms, buds and leaves, And earnest faces fairer than the flowers. ]STo grave has been forgotten all are dressed. The simple soldier from the distant State Is loved and honored, though perchance unknown. And where he sleeps is beautiful with bloom. One stayed a little when the rest were gone, Beside a grave. Quite motionless she stood, Until the paths grew dim, then turned away; And twilight gathers over Hollywood. The sun goes down behind a bank of cloud And dashes all the stormy west with blood, PRIZE POEM. 445 As dies a hero in a broken cause When, pouring out his wasted life, he leaves The land he loved to darkness and defeat. Far down below I hear the river rush, And standing in this city of the dead The voice of waters seems a human cry That rises from the breadth of all the land Of shivered hearthstones and of broken hearts. The city growing sombre in the dusk, Was lit with splendor forty months agone, When all our best and bravest gathered there, A nation s fortress and her capital. The long streets trembled with the tramp of men, And rang with shouting and with martial strains ; And up the glancing river came the boom Of mighty guns that held a fleet at bay ; But sorrow came upon her, and defeat, She sank in ashes, and a people s hope Sank with her ; and her glory passed away. Her arms were overthrown, her flag was torn, Her children bent their heads beneath the yoke In bitter silence ; and her chosen chief Was fettered in the fortress by the sea. rapid river, with the mighty voice, Rave through thy hills, and wear away the rocks Even as a people wears away the heart In thinking on their glory and their fall. * But the spirit of the first campaigns, O days of life and motion ! 446 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. From Rio Grande to the Chesapeake .They gathered, sweeping joyous to the fight. The wild yell rising from the trampling charge Tore through the ragged rifts of battle smoke, And rose above the thunder of the guns. And as a great wave on the open sea, That strikes a blow and leaves a wreck behind, They swept along, a living surge of strength, With tempest voice and crest of bayonet. God smiled at first, then turned his face aside ; And hope, that glittered like a sunlit sword, Was quenched in gloom ; and still they smote the foe That rose, with strength renewed, from each defeat, Till, broken by their victories, they fell. Forever thin and thinner grew the ranks, The weary march, the hungry bivouac, The scanty blanket wet with driving sleet, The sleepless outpost, listlessness of camp, The longing for the loved at home all these, Far more than wasting battle, wasted them Until their strength was spent. "Now low they lie, And never more upon Virginia hills Shall thrill the onset of the Southern lines. The men that bore the bayonet and blade Shall bear them now no more ; But ! to think how bright and swift they were, And now how cold and still ! rushing river, thou at least art free And fit to sing a soldier s requiem, Deep-toned and tremulous the dirge of men That once were tameless as thy winter flood. JACKSON, THE ALEXANDRIA MARTYR. 447 When once again we stand erect and free And we may write a truthful epitaph A nation uttering its grief in stone Shall pile aloft a stately monument. Not that their fame has need of sculptured urn, For the} have liyed such, lives and wrought such deeds As venal history cannot lie away. Till then shall scattered roses deck their graves And woman s tear shall be their epitaph. O river, though they moulder in the dust, Let them not perish from our hearts speak on, And fill us with thy rushing energy, That as the gathered freshets of the spring Burst upward through the shackles of the ice, So we at last may dash our fetters off For until then, these men have died in vain. SOUTHERN OPINION. BY W. H. HOLCOMBE, M. D., VIRGINIA. TWAS not the private insult galled him most, But public outrage to his country s flag, To which his patriotic heart had pledged Its faith as to a bride. The bold, proud chief, The avenging host, and the swift coming death Appalled him not. Nor life with all its charms, Nor home, nor wife, nor children could weigh down The fierce, heroic instincts to destroy The insolvent invader. Ellsworth fell, 448 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And Jackson perished mid the pack of wolves, Befriended only by his own great heart And God approving. More than Eoman soul I O type of our impetuous chivalry ! May this young nation ever boast her sons A vast, and inconceivable multitude, Standing like thee in her extremest van, Self poised and ready, in defence of rights Or in revenge of wrongs, to dare and die I BY COL. A. M. HOBBY, TEXAS. " My House shall be called of all nations the house of prayer ; but ye have made it a den of thieves. " " Beware of false prophets which come to you in sheep s clothing but inwardly they are ravening wolves. " "It was the worst work that Satan and sin ever undertook in this world ; and they that suffered in it were not martyrs in a good cause, but convicts in a bad one. "Who shall comfort them that sit by dis honored graves ?" Sermon of Henry Ward Seedier. VTLE, brutal man ! and darest thou In God s anointed place to preach With impious tongue and brazen brow The lessons Hell would blush to teach ? The cruel taunt thy lips hath hissed Beneath Eeligion s holy screen, Is false as false Iscariot s kiss ; Is false as thou art vile and mean. Are these the lessons which He taught? And was His mission here in vain ? OUR DEAD. 449 Peace and good will seem words of naught Hell rules the earth with hate again ! And thou ! its chosen instrument, Hyena-like, with heartless tread, Hast dared invade, with blood-hound scent, The sacred precincts of the dead. Not such from those, dear, brave old South, Who met thee in thine hour of might 1 But from the coarse, polluted mouth Of coward curs who feared to fight. Dear loved old South ! contemn the curse That those who hate shall heap on you ; You ve wept behind War s bloody hearse, That bore away your brave and true ! Their precious blood, though vainly shed Long as thy shore old ocean laves We ll bow with reverence o er our dead, And bless the turf that wraps their graves. From Mexico to Maryland, Those graves are strewn like autumn leaves What though no mother s tender hand Upon their tomb a chaplet weaves Nor wives, nor sisters, bend above The honored soldiers unmarked mound They are objects of eternal love In consecrated Southern ground. It recks not where their bodies lie By bloody hill-side, plain, or river Their names are bright on Fame s proud sky, Their deeds of valor live forever. 450 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. The song-birds of the South shall sing From forest grand, and flowery stem, And gentlest waters murmuring, Unite to hymn their requiem, And Spring will deck their hallowed bed With types of resurrection s day ; And silent tears the night hath shed The morning s beam will kiss away. Those heroes rest in solemn fame On every field where Freedom bled ; And shall we let the touch of shame Fall like a - blight upon our dead? No wretch ! we scorn thy hatred now, And hiss thy shame from pole to to pole, The brutes are better far than thou, And Hell would blush to own thy souL "Dishonored graves?" take back the lie That s breathed by more than human hate, Lest, Ananias-like, yon die, Not less deserving of his fate. Our Spartan women bow in dust, Around their country s broken shrine ; True as their cause was right and just, Pure as their deeds have been divine. Their angel hands the wounded cheered : Did all that woman ever dares When wealth and homes had disappeared, They gave us tears, and smiles, and prayers. They proudly gave their jewels up For all they loved as worthless toys : CHARLES B. DREUX. 451 Drank to the dregs Want s bitter cup, To feed our sick and starving boys. Their glorious flag on high no more Is borne by that unconquered band ; ^Tis furled upon the "silent shore," Its heroes still around it stand. No more beneath its folds shall meet The armies of immortal LEE ; The rolling of their drums last beat, Is echoing in eternity ! GALYESTON, Texas, January, 1866. BY JAMES B. KANDALL. WEEP, Louisiana, weep thy gallant dead ! Weave the green laurel o er the undaunted head ; Fling thy bright banner o er the heart which bled Defending thee ! Weep, Weep, Imperial City, deep and wild ; Weep for thy martyred and heroic child, The young, the brave, the free, and undefiled, Ah ! weep for him ! Lo ! the wail surges from embattled bands. By Yorktown s plains and Pensacola s sands, Reaching to the golden sugar lands : Adieu ! adieu ! * Of New Orleans. 452 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. The death of honor was the death he craved ; To die where weapons clashed, and pennons waved,. To welcome freedom o er the opening grave, And live for aye. His blood had too much lightning to be still ; His spirit was the torrent, not the rill : The gods have loved him, and the Eternal Hill Is his at last, He died while yet his chainless eye could roll, Flashing the conflagrations of his soul ! The rose and mirror of the bold Creole. He sleepeth welL Lament, lone mother, for his early fate, But bear thy burden with a hope elate, For thou hast shrined thy jewel in the state, A precious boon ! And thou, sad wife, thy sacred tears belong To the untarnished and immortal throng : For he shall fire the poet s breast and song In thrilling strains. And the fair virgins of our sunny clime Shall wed their music to the minstrel rhyme, Making his name melodious for all time It cannot die. ZOLLICOFFEE. 453 BY HAEEY FLASH. FIRST in the fight, and first in the arms, Of the white-winged angels of glory, With the heart of the South at the feet of (rod, And his wounds to tell the story. For the blood that flowed from his hero heart On the spot where he nobly perished, "Was drunk by the earth as a sacrament, In the holy cause he cherished. In heaven a home, with the brave and blessed, And for his soul s sustaining, The apocalyptic eyes of Christ, And nothing on earth remaining, .But a handful of dust in the land of his choice, A name in song and story, And Fame to shout, with her brazen voice : " DIED ON THE FIELD OF GLORY." 454 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. MBS. MAHGAEET J. PBESTON. She has strength to go forward : they enter the door, And there on the crowded and blood-tainted floor, Close wrapped in his blanket, lies Douglas : his brow Wore never a look so seraphic as now ! She stretches her arms the dear form to enfold, God help her! . . she shrieks . . . it is silent and cold * ***** " Break my heart, and cease this pain Cease to throb, thou tortured brain ; Let me die, since he is slain, Slain in battle 1 Blessed brow, that loved to rest Its dear whiteness on my breast Gory was the grass it prest, Slain in battle 1 Oh I that still and stately form- Never more will it be warm ; Chilled beneath that iron storm, Slain in battle 1 Not a pillow for his head- Not a hand to smooth his head Not one tender parting said, Slain in battle 1 Straightway from that bloody sod, Where the trampling horsemen trod Lifted to the arms of God ; Slain in battle 1 SLAIN IN BATTLE. 455 Not my love to come between, "With its interposing screen Naught of earth to intervene ; Slain in battle ! Snatched the purple billows o er, Through the fiendish rage and roar, To the far and peaceful shore ; Slain in battle ! Nunc demitte thus I pray What else left for me to say, Since my life is reft away ? Slain in battle ! Let me die, oh ! God ! the dart Hankies deep within my heart, Hope and joy and peace, depart ; Slain in battle 1" FEOM BEECHENBKOOK. ON THE DEATH OF LIEUT. HENKY LEWIS, Commanding Company B, of the 44th Virginia Volunteers, killed in the battle of Seven Pines, May 31st, 1862. By a lady who knew his virtues, and loved him welL HE lay among the dying and the battle raged near by, Upon the moist sod lying he was left to bleed and die. Yet comrades came to seek him and raised his drooping head 456 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. " Go win your country s cause," said he, " and leave me with the dead." Whole squadrons swept beside him, and the cannon thundered on, His friends rushed with the tide of war, and he was left alone ! Oh ! not alone ! for one was there, the mighty " Prince of Peace," "Who whispered in his dying ear, and bade his suffer ings cease, And to his weary dying eyes a beauteous sight was given The starry portals of the skies, and peaceful fields of Heaven. He dreamed of waters pure and clear, the crystal streams of life, Untainted by the human tear or battle s bitter strife. His thoughts were with the loved and lost, and radiant forms were there, While voices from the angel host, came floating on the air Lower and lower sunk his head and fainter came his breath, The Christian lay among the dead, and slept the sleep of death. The battle ceased the evening sun looked down upon the field, Where thousands died for freedom s cause, and dying scorned to yield, THE SOLDIERS GRAVE. 457 While weeping comrades made his grave beneath the bloody sod, His soul was with the radiant hosts around the throne of God. BY PEAKL. Tis where no chisel s tracing tells The humble sleeper s name, No sordid marble proudly swells The measure of his fame. Nor while the pensive moonbeams sleep, Upon the dim blue wave, Do mourning kindred come to weep, Beside the soldier s grave. But poised upon her gleaming wings, The beauteous summer bird, In sweet and melting strains, to sing His requiem is heard. And oft as Spring her garland weaves, There blooms her dewy rose, And Autumn strews her yellow leaves Above his deep repose. So true is Nature to his tomb So true I almost crave, While musing on the soldier s doom, To fill a soldier s grave. VICTORIA. ADVOCATE. 458 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY HENBY TIMROD, OF SOUTH CAKOIJNA. THE rain is flashing on my sill, But all the winds of heaven are still, And so it falls with that dull sound Which thrills us in the church-yard ground, When the first spade-full drops like lead Upon the coffin dead. Beyond my streaming window pane I cannot see the neighboring vane ; Yet from its own familiar tower, The "bell comes muffled, through the shower. What strange and unexpected link Of feeling touched, has made me think While with a vacant soul and eye I watch that gray and stormy sky Of nameless graves on battle plains, Washed by a single winter s rains, Where, some beneath Virginia s hills, And some by green Atlantic rills ; Some by the waters of the West, A myriad unknown heroes rest ? Ah 1 not the chiefs, who, dying, see Their flags in front of victory ; Or at their life-blood s noblest cost, Pay for a battle nobly lost ; Calm from their monumental beds, The bitterest tears a nation sheds. Beneath yon lonely mound the spot, By all save some fond few forget CENTRAL ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON. 459 Lie the true martyrs of the fight, Which strikes for freedom and for right Of them, their patriot zeal and pride, The lofty faith that with them died : No grateful page shall further tell, Than that so many brayely fell ! And we can only dimly guess "What worlds of all this world s distress, What utter woe, despair, and dearth, Their fate has brought to many a hearth. Just such a sky as this should weep, Above them, always where they sleep ; Yet haply, at this very hour. Their graves are like a lover s bower ; And nature s self, with eyes unwet Oblivious of the crimson debt, To which she owes her April grace, Laughs gayly o er their burial place. BY JAMES L. BOWEN, VIRGINIA. PART FIRST. ON Shilo s plains a hero fell, Amid the battle s fiercest strife In foremost ranks with Spartan zeal, To freedom s cause he gave his life ! i Close to the foe he pressed the charge, With dauntless soul and god-like power, 460 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Disdainful of the foeman s blade, The shrieking shell and leaden shower. From rank to rank with kingly port, And Koman firmness dash d he on, And urged the fight with trumpet voice Till the approach of victory s dawn ; But ah, alas ! as victory perched Upon the hero s shining crest, He sank upon the battle field, To take the warrior s final rest ! As ebbed his life-blood on the plain The martyr cast one parting glance Upon his comrades in the fight, And cried, " Brave men once more advance l n The victory won, a wail of woe "Went up from hearts of war-worn men And drops as warm as woman s tears, Were shed by them, for Johnston then. PART SECOND. The mighty storm of war is hushed, And heroes slain unconscious sleep But living compeers of the strife. For freedom lost, now vainly weep. Brief years have passed the chieftain sleeps A goodly sleep, with glory s wreath Upon his brow, tho pillowed far From tomb, that living friends bequeath. GENERAL ALBERT SYDNEY JOHNSTON. 461 And tho now Freedom wears the chains Imposed by Faction s spiteful hate, And votaries to her holy cause, With pent up anguish mourn her fate, The hero chief is still revered His valorous deeds in memory live ; And hearts devoted to his dust Once more a solemn tribute give, Around the hospitable tomb By gracious M * * * to greatness given, In silence weep the mighty men To Fame allied, by laws of Heaven. Expectant all with silent awe And beating hearts, their vigils keep, Awaiting now the advent new The hero in his lasting sleep. Now opes the portal of the tomb, And lo ! his presence slow appears ! Close coffined tho the great remains, Each loving heart dissolves in tears ! A dual woe each soul o erwhelms The Cause, her champion, both are dead Manes of chief and Liberty. Both shrouded in one gory bed ! Within the aisle the sacred urn To eyes devoted is exposed By chieftains known to lasting fame The coffined greatness is disclosed. 462 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Near to, a venerable priest, Whose silvered locks and kindly face, Bespeak the Christian s holy faith, Implores of God his loving grace ! With eyes fixed on the heavenly dome, Thence calls he strength to patient hope, And asks a balm for every wound With eloquence and fervid trope. All hearts in reverence deep are bowed, And with a noble grief are stirred And pulsate with a sobbing throb, To every burning, suppliant word. This silent tribute, oh how grand ! How great the souls that homage pay I The glory of the mighty dead Transcends the meed of vain array ! Let jealous power restrict the pomp Of martial show to doubtful fame, To add a laurel to the brow Of mouldering patriot of a name. Tis meet that fame obscure and weak, Should blazoned be by drum and bell That mobocratic praises should The list of doubtful praises swell ; But greatness true outshines the glare Of vain device and tinseled gaud, And though the tongue of Spite defames Its glorious halo sheds abroad. GENERAL ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON. 463 The rites religious now performed, The slumbering chief is gently borne By princes all to take his leave For land, where for him millions mourn. Then came the last, the sad farewell Of living chieftains to the dead The heroes, who, on Shilo s plains, Were by the slumbering chieftain led. PAET THIKD. With sorrowing pride the ocean bears, Upon its gently swelling breast, The sacred relics to the shores On which is reared their templed rest The waves propitious Texas mourns In silent grief, for in her thrall, A tyrant will forbids the meed Of public woe, and homage all ! Upon her broad and sunny plains, Near to the Ocean s plaintive wave. With Glory s wreath upon his brow The chieftain sleeps in honored grave. Wave, bird, and zephyr hourly trill In unison and plaintive strain, A requiem to the mighty dead, And Echo chants the sad refrain. 464 THE SOUTHERN A3IABAOTH. BY MOLLEE E. MOORE, TEXAS. TEXAS, like Mary, a worshipper, Comes sorrowing ! Ha ! who keeps her away from the sepulchre Of her shrouded king ? They strike like cowards her galling chains. And sneer that her lips are strangely dumb I Christ ! will the blood keep calm in our veins Till the end is come ? Alas ! my brothers, whose brave forms moved In the battle flame ! Alas ! my sisters, whose hearts were proved When the midnight came ! He comes, whose arm was so firmly steeled 1 Oh, warrior what of the hidden past ? Are you come as a messenger from the field Where your sword shone last ? Oh I silent and royal, that mad day died On a sullen night ! But the valley was grand in the glow of thy pride ! Is it not our right ? "The circumstances attending the removal and reburial of the remains of General Albert Sidney Johnston, are of too recent occur rence, and too well and generally understood, to need further illus tration than is conveyed in the above lines. Editress. RICHMOND ON THE JAMES. 465 The laurels thy name and thy sword hath won us, The trust our fetterless soil will keep ! But the eyes of our masters are upon us, And we may not weep ! No " glorious pomp," in the guarded street No roll of drums Naught save the echo of mournful feet Where our hero comes Silent bells in each guarded steeple ! Met, like a prisoner hanged for crime ? But a vengeance cometh, Oh, my peopl( Let us bide our time. [ BY ANNIE MAEIA WELBY, KENTUCKY. A SOLDIER boy from Bourbon lay gasping on the field, When the battle s shock was over, and the foe was forced to yield ; He fell a youthful hero, before the foeman s aims, On a blood-red field near Eichmond near Eichmond on the James. But one still stood beside him his comrade in the fray. They had been friends together through boyhood s hap- PJ day, And side by side had struggled, in fields of blood and flames, To part that eve near Eichmond near Eichmond on the James. 466 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. He said, " I charge thee, comrade, tlie friend in days of yore, To the far, far distant, near ones, that I shall see no more ; Tho scarce my lips can whisper their dear and well- known names, To bear to them my blessing from Eichmond on the James. " Bear my good sword to my brother, and the badge upon my breast To the young and gentle sister, that I used to love the best ; One lock take from my forehead, for the mother still that dreams, Of her soldier-boy near Richmond near Richmond on the James. " Oh, I wish that mother s arms were folded round me now, That her gentle hand could linger one moment on my brow : For I know that she is praying, where our blessed hearth-light gleams, For her soldier s safe return, from Richmond on the James. " And on my heart, dear comrade, close lay those nut- brown braids, Of one that was the fairest of all the village maids ; We were to have been wedded, but death the bride groom claims, And she is far that loves me, from Richmond on the James. RICHMOND ON THE JAMES. 467 Oh, does the pale face haunt her, dear Mend, that looks on thee? Or is she laughing, singing, in careless, girlish, glee ? It may be she is joyous she loves but joyous themes, Nor dreams her love lies bleeding, near Richmond on the James. " And though I know, dear comrade, thoul t miss me for awhile, When their faces all that loved thee again on thee shall smile: Again thoul t be the foremost in all their youthful games, But I shall lie near Richmond near Richmond on the James." And far from all that loved him, that youthful soldier sleeps, Unknown among the thousands of those his country weeps ; But no higher heart, nor braver than his, at sunset s beams, Was laid that eve near Richmond near Eichmond on the James. The land is filled with mourning, from hall and cot left lone, We miss the well-known faces that used to meet our own, And long poor wives and mothers shall weep and tilted dames, To hear the name of Richmond, of Richmond on the James. LOTJISTILLE, KT., July, 1862. 468 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. THE MARTYR OP NEW ORLEANS BY INA M. POBTEE, 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 Bed with a martyr s blood ; And woman s tear Fell on his bier ! Oh, God ! that he should die Beneath a Southern sky ! Upon a felon s gallows swinging, Murdered by tyrant hand, While round a helpless band, On Butler s name Poured scorn and shame. But hark ! loud paeans fly From earth to vaulted sky, He s crowned at Freedom s holy throne List ! sweet voiced Isrefel * Tolls for the martyr s knell ! Shout Southrons high, Our battle cry ! Oome all of Southern blood, Come kneel to Freedom s God ! Here at her crimson altar swear ! Accursed forever more The flag that Mumford tore And o er his grave Our colors wave. LINES BY HIS WIDOW. &i SLEEP knits up the raveled sleeve of care," They say. 0, would it knit up mine, and not Leave this suffering heart of mine so bare. A nightmare sits upon rue, ever cold and grim, And wherefore , the horrid vision of a murdered Love Is ever before me. Who were his murderers ? A set of dastard cowards ; for what ? listen, Gentle reader. A mighty foe besieged a city Filled with non-combatants, helpless women and chil dren, And ere the city had surrendered, hoisted a hated Symbol, of Stars and Stripes, a strip or rag, * The sweetest voiced angel around the throne of God. OKEENTAI. XiEGEND. 470 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Perchance, it will be, must be. He, the murdered man, he tore it down amid A shower of shot and shell what cared he for his life t " Shall it be said they hoisted up their flag before The city had surrendered ? never, I will tear it down or die!" He died as a Southern man should and can die For the honor of his country a Martyr. He sleeps, a sleep that knows no waking, In a bright and joyous world, where sits a judge The avenger of unjust and murderous deeds. But there is one who lives, and breathes and moves, And does he sleep ? perchance to dream Of goblins, scaffolds, a father pleading For his life, a pale face craving pardon For the. father of her children such dreams ! And do they leave no weight upon him in his Waking hours ? Let conscience answer. SOUTHERN OPINION, EICHMOND. ON THE DEATH OF ANNIE CARTER LEE. BY MAET B. CLAKKE. (TENELIA.) " EARTH to earth and dust to dust" Saviour, in thy word we trust. Sow we now our precious grain, Thou shalt raise it up again. * Daughter of General Eobert E. Lee, who died at Jones Springs Warren County, N. C., October 29th, 1862. THE DEATH OF ANNIE CAETEB LEE. 471 Plant we the terrestrial root "Which shall bear celestial fruit ; Lay a bud within a tomb, That a flower in heaven may bloom. Severed are no tender ties, Though in death s embrace she lies, For the lengthened chain of love Stretches to her home above. Mother, in thy bitter grief Let this thought bring sweet relief, Mother of an angel now God himself hath crowned thy brow With the thorns the Saviour wore Blessed art thou evermore. Unto him thou dost resign A portion of the life was thine. " Earth to earth and dust to dust," Sore the trial sweet the trust, Father thou who seest death Eeaping grain at every breath, As the sickle sharp he wields O er our bloody battle fields, Murmur not that now he weaves This sweet flower amid his sheaves ; Taken in her early prime, Gathered in the summer time, Autumn s blast she shall not know, Never shrink from winter s snow. Sharp the pang which thou must feel, Sharper than the foeman s steel, For thy fairest flower is hid Underneath the coffin s lid. 472 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. O er her grave thou dropst no tear ; "Warrior stern must thou appear, Crushing back the tide of grief Which in vain demands relief. Louder still thy country cries, At thy feet it bleeding lies. And before the patriot now Husband, father, both must bow. But unnumbered are thy friends, And from many a home ascends Earnest, heartfelt prayers for thee, " As thy days thy strength shall be." TO THE BATTLE FIELD OF S H A K P S B U R G- BY UEOLA. (MRS. LOTJLA W. ROGERS, GEORGIA.) HUSH D was the inspiring strain of martial band, Which late had waked the slumbering hills to life ; No deaf ning roar fell on the midnight air No burnish d helmet gleamed upon the plain But o er the blood-stained battle-field there hung A heavy, funeral pall. How I heard The murmuring flow of Antietam, Whose rolling waves were crimson d with the blood Of fallen foe ; yet, save this low, sad dirge No sound disturbed the calm ; for Nature slept, And awful seemed the stillness brooding o er * Special contribution. A DREAM VISIT. 473 That spot, where Death had been the conqueror. Oh, where, I cried, Is the promised goal the bright, grand recompense Of proud Ambition; and the radiant beams Of Glory and of Fame ? The flickering light That led upon our soil a thirsty horde To bathe their hands in brothers blood, and feast On gathered spoils ? Where the mighty hosts The gallant steeds that swept at early dawn The now neglected plain ! Aye, tell me where Those shrinking souls that at the judgment seat Must bear a record of this day ! A groan Fell on my ear a deep heart-rending groan, That told the tale more touchingly than words. I hied me to the spot whence came The sound of woe ; and there, beyond the reach Of help, had wandered one whose wasting breath Had almost sunk. His years were few ; and on Thought bore me to our own brave soldier-boy, "Whose love-lit smile e en then might sleep in death. The dark and wavy hair That fell upon his marble brow was red With clotted gore ; and the youthful cheek A mother s lip had fondly loved to press Was blanched with suffering. Upon his breast an open Bible lay, Whose holy pages guided him in life, And tenderly would lead him through the waves Of Death s deep waters. A trembling whisper Pell upon the breeze ; and there devoutly kneeling I faintly caught the soldier s song : 474 THE SOUTHEEN AMARANTH. " I am dying ! slowly dying, "Wave our banner o er my head, Let its radiant folds surround me Though my heart be cold and dead. I " Tell my comrades ne er to waver In the glorious work begun ; Onward be their footsteps ever, Onward ! till the goal is won ! " Tell my mother, gently tell her, For her soul is widowed now, That I ne er forgot her teaching, Or the solemn, parting vow ; " Tell my fond and loving sisters, When the fire around me rolled, That their hope-inspiring voices Made my heart grow strong and bold. " And her, oh, tell her how my spirit, Breathed for her its latest prayer, Ere it winged its wa} T to Heaven : May we greet each other there /" The song was hush d ! The moonlight softer fell Upon his face, and close beside his heart An image pure and fair was fondly prest, Defying Death to tear their souls apart On the dream spirit bore My wandering footsteps, ling ring oft to cheer In this broad Aceldama, the wounded And the dying I And here, among the heaps A DREAM VISIT. 475 Of fallen braves was one who nobly led* His comrades to the charge, and fearless held Aloft his colors, though four had perished there. Alas ! thou too my gallant kinsman, there Hast found thy resting-place ; thy manly form Was foremost in the van, though angels breathed Thy death-knell, days before. In slumbers deep Thou heard st the om nous call, and dimly viewed The shadowy land of Death. Thy brave young heart No more will list to Glory s bidding, or will join The shout of triumph pealing far above When Southern soil is free ! No more thy smile May cheer with joy the loved at home, or soothe Thy young wife, whose all is sacrificed Upon her country s shrine ! And these, oh War, Are victims of thy power ! Forms tall and brave, With manhood s noblest gifts the old and young Alike are thine. From home and friends afar Here too the sons of my own native hills, Who dream of fame neath Upson s beauteous shades,. Lie cold and dead ! No pitying angel comes To hush the strife, and one by one they fall Of those we held so dear. All-seeing God, We implore thee hear the helpless cries of grief That well nigh crush our aching hearts : send forth Thy Holy Spirit o er our bleeding land ; Oh, send the war-clouds from our trembling gaze, And with the New Year whisper Peace ! Be still I * A son of Judge Bice, of Marietta, Georgia. 476 THE SOUTHERN AMABANTH. BY ACCOMAC. MOUKNFULLY the bells are tolling, And the muffled drums are rolling With a sad and dreary echo, Through Richmond s crowded street ; And the dead march slowly pealing, On the solemn air now stealing, Hushing every lightsome feeling, Our saddened senses greet ; And a look of settled sorrow Is on every face we meet. To his last, long home they re bearing One, whose many deeds of daring, One, whose noble, high-toned spirit Has endeared him to us all ; Now, his sleep shall know no waking, Now, his rest shall have no breaking, And no more, amid war s thunders, Shall his soldiers hear his call. He has laid aside his armor, And his banner is his pall ! But his deeds will never slumber, For we ll ever proudly number Him among the brave who perished Struggling for our liberty ; 1 Killed at Koanoke Island, February 8th, 1862. DEATH OF COL. TEERY. 477 And Virginia, when she s weeping O er the sons that now are sleeping On her bosom, shall forget not That he died to set her free ; And graven on her sacred tablets Shall his name forever be. t k ItoiJi 0f 01 BY J. K. BABEICK, KENTUCKY. THERE is a wail As if the voice of sadness long and deep, Had given its low tones to the Southern gale, Sweeping o er vale and steep, There is a voice As if of mingled mourning in the land, And Nature, stricken, ceases to rejoice, As if at griefs command. There is a grief As if of hearts that were unused to mourn, And sighs and sorrow fail to bring relief To those that thus bemoan. There is a tear. As if of eyes that were unused to tears A link of friendship broken that was dear A shadow on past years. "The gallant commander of "The Texas Kangers," who fell at th battle of Green Kiver, in defence of the rights and liberties of Ken tucky, his native State, and his adopted South. 478 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. There is a pall As if of darkness o er our sun-land spread, A weight of weariness and grief on all Who mourn the heroic dead. The south winds moan, The south winds murmur in a plaintive strain, The south winds warble in a saddened tone, And the land groans with pain. The Lone Star shines Less brilliant in her glow of southern skies Since he, the idol of her cherished shrines, In death s cold slumber lies. Back to the State That gave him birth his spirit bade him come To share the peril of her pending fate, Far from his chosen home. There, where his life First coursed the channel of its future fame, He fell, the foremost in the deadly strife, With glory to his name. Tho dead to earth, While man may boast that he is not a slave Of tyranny, his valor and his worth The tide of time will brave. Dear unto those To whom his voice in battle gave command, Who, now, amid the terror of his foes, Shall head that gallant band ? Dear to the State ASHBY. 479 Of his adoption, to the people clear Whose cause he proudly strove to illustrate, Who now shall fill his sphere ? GLASGOW, KY., Dec. 18th, 1861. BY JOHN K. THOMPSON. 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 Eode at Templestowe : With a mien how high and joyous, Gainst the hordes that would destroy us, Went he forth we know. Nevermore, alas ! 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 song of maidens, Now he takes his rest 480 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Earth that all too soon has 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 ! MRS. MAKGABET J. PBESTON, VTBGINIA. HEARD ye that thrilling tone ? Accent of dread ! Fall like a thunderbolt, Bowing each head ? Over the battle dun Over each booming gun AsJiby our bravest one, Ashhy is dead I Saw ye the veterans ? Hearts that had known Never a quail or fear, Never a groan DIRGE FOE ASHBY. 481 Sob mid the fight they win, Tears their stern eyes within, Ashhy our Paladin, Asliby is dead! Dash, dash the tear away ! Crush down the pain ! Duke et decus he, Fittest refrain. Why should the dreary pall Bound him be flung at all ? Did not our hero fall, Gallantly slain ? Catch the last words of cheer Dropped from his tongue ! Over the volley s din Let them be rung ! Follow me! Follow me I Soldier, oh ! could there be Paean or dirge for thee Loftier sung ? Bold as the Lion s Heart Dauntless and brave, Knightly as knightliest Sweet, with all Sidney s grace Tender as Hampden s face, Who, who 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 1 Ah ! from a thousand eyes 482 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Flow the pure tears that rise Widowed Virginia lies Stricken to-day ! Yet charge as gallantly, Ye whom he led ! Jackson the victor, still Stands at yonr head ! Heroes ! be battle done Bravelier every one Nerved by the thought alone Asliby is dead I BY OLD FOGY. BEST, soldier, rest ! thy sword hath won A fadeless wreath of glory : Sleep calmly, for thy name adorns Thy country s proudest story. Virginia s cause was but thine own, Whatever fate attend her, In peace, to share her glories thine ; In war, thine to defend her. Aye, foremost in the bloody fray Of each succeeding rally ; The boldest warrior of his day, The Murat of the Valley I THE BUEIAL OF LATAXE. 483 On mountain height, o er dale and glen, Where er the foe dare meet them, There Ashby led, and Ashbj s men Bushed boldly out to greet them. Thy form hath faded from our sight, Thy battle-shout hath ended : But with thy country s glory bright, Thine own great fame is blended I In peace or war, whate er betide, We ll own thy gallant bearing, And Ashby still shall be our pride, And Ashby s deeds of daring. Then, soldier, rest ! thy sword hath won A fadeless wreath of glory : Sleep calmly, for thy name adorns Thy country s proudest story. METKOPOLITAN RECORD. BY JOHN K. THOMPSON. 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 comrade, glory crowned, Unburied on the field he died to gain, Single of all his men amid the hostile slain I 484 THE SOUTHERN AMAEANTH. One moment on 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 gate of strife, From earthly crowns and palms to an immortal life. * * * # w * A brother bore his body from the field, And gave it unto stranger hands, that closed The calm blue eyes, on earth forever sealed, And tenderly the slender limbs composed : Strangers, yet sisters, who with Mary s love, jSat by the tomb, and weeping looked above. A little child 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 and the faithful slave Approached with reverent feet the hero s lowly grave. v No man of God might say the burial rite Above the " rebel " thus declared the foe That blanched before him in the deadly fight ; But woman s voice, in accents soft and low, Trembling with pity, touched with pathos, read O er his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead. Tis sown in weakness, it is raised in power," Softly the promise floated on the air, And the sweet breathings of the sunset hour Came back responsive to the mourner s prayer : THE BURIAL OF LATANE 485 Gently they laid him underneath the sod, And left him with his fame, his country, and his God. Let us not weep for him whose deeds endure, So young, so brave, so beautiful he died ; As he had wished to die ; the past is sure Whatever yet of sorrow may betide Those who still linger on the stormy shore, Change cannot harm him now, nor fortune touch him more. And when Virginia, leaning on her spear, Victrix et vidua* the conflict done, , Shall raise her mailed hand to wipe the tear That starts as she recalls each martyred son, No prouder memory her breast shall sway, Than thine, our early lost, lamented Latane ! SOUTHERN LITEEAEY MESSENGER. jjitwrnw BY JAMES BARRON HOPE. ALAS ! he s cold ! Oold as the marble which his fingers wrought Cold but not dead, for each embodied thought Of his, which he from the Ideal brought To live in stone, Assures him immortality of fame. * The beautiful image in the concluding stanza is borrowed (and .some of the language is versified) from the eloquent remarks of Hon. IB. M. T. Hunter, on the death of ex-President Tyler. 486 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH* Gait is not dead Only too soon We saw him climb Up to Ms pedestal, Where future time, And coming generations, in the noon Of his full reputation, yet shall stand To pay their homage to his noble name. Our Poet of the Quarries only sleeps : He cleft his pathway up the future s steeps And now rests from his labors. Hence tis, I say For him there is no death, Only the stopping of the pulse and breath. But simple breath is not the all in all- Man hath it but in common with the brutes : Life is in action, and in brave pursuits. By what we dream, and having dreamt, dare do> We hold our places in the world s large view, And still have part in the affairs of men When the long sleep is on us. He dreamt and made his dreams perpetual things*. Fit for the rugged cells of penitential saints, Our halls of sumptuous kings, And showed himself a poet in his art. He chiselled lyrics with a touch so fine, With such a tender beauty of their own* That unset songs broke out from every line, And verse was audible in voiceless stone. His Psyche, soft in beauty and in placid grace, Waits for her lover in the western breeze, SACKUM. 487 And a rare smile irradiates her face, As though she heard him whisper in the trees. Bacchante, with her vine-crowned hair, Leaps to the cymbal-measured dance, "With such a passion in her air Upon her brow upon her lips As thrills you to the finger-tips, And fascinates your glance. There are, as twere, two of his songs in stone The one, full of the tenderness of love, Speaking of moonrise and the song-bird s call : The other of mad laughter and the tone Of fatal music, on whose rise and fall Swift-footed dancers follow. Nobler than these Sweet Lyrics, dreams dreamt neath the summer trees, He worked some Epic studies out in part, To leave them incomplete, his chiefest pain When the low pulses of his failing heart Admonished him of death. Aye ! he had soared upon a lofty wing "Wet with the purple and uncrimsoned rain Of dreams whose clouds had floated o er his brain Until it ached with glories. If you would see the Epic studies, go Go with the student from the dim arcade. Halt where the Statesman * standeth in the hall, * His Jefferson, at the University of Virginia. 488 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And mark how careless voices Imsli and fall, And all light talk to sudden pause is brought When fronted with the noble type of thought He shaped from pale Carara. View his Columbus. Hero grand and meek, Scarred in the battle s long protracted brunt, Palos and Salvador stamped on his front A second Atlas, bearing on his brow A new world just discovered. These of the many, but they are enough Enough to show that I have rightly said, The marble snow from him bids back decay He sleepeth long, but sleeps not with the dead They die and are forgotten ere the clay Heaped over them hath hardened in the sun. This much of Gralt the Artist : Of the man Fain would I speak, but in sad sooth I can Ne er find the words wherein to tell How he was loved, or yet how well He did deserve it. All things of beauty were to him delight The sunset s clouds the turret rent apart, The stars, which glitter in the noon of night, Spoke with one voice unto his mind and heart His love of Nature made his love of Art And had his span Of life been longer, he had surely done IN MEAIORIAM. 489 Such, noble things that he Like to a soaring eagle would have been At last lost in the sun. D. J. E. BY KEY. A. J. EYAK. YOUNG as the youngest who donned the grey, True as the truest that wore it Brave as the bravest he marched away, (Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay,) Triumphant waved our Flag one day, He fell in the front before it. Firm as the firmest where duty led, He hurried without a falter Bold as the boldest he fought and bled, And the day was won but the field was red, And the blood of his fresh, young heart was shed On his country s hallowed altar. On the trampled breast of the battle-plain, Where the foremost ranks had wrestled On his pale, pure face, not a mark of pain, (His mother dreams they will meet again,) The fairest form amid all the slain, Like a child asleep he nestled. In the solemn shades of the woods that swept The field where his comrades had found him 490 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. They buried him there and the big tears crept Into strong men s eyes that had seldom wept, (His mother, God pity her ! smiled and slept, Dreaming her arms were around him.) ##* A grave in the woods, with the grass o ergrown, A grave in the heart of his mother His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone ; There is not a name, there is not a stone And only the voice of the winds maketh moan O er the grave where never a flower is strewn But his memory lives in the other. SOUTHERN SOCIETY, BALTIMOEE. A TRIBUTE. BY JOHN E. HATCHEE. will not wander to the gloomy years Through whose dark scenes we have so lately passed^ Where no soft beam of golden light appears, To gild the clouds of sorrow o er them cast. Those things are but a solitude of graves, Where Love and Memory pour their tears like rain, And where, in voiceless grief, the cypress waves, Above the hearts, which for us die in vain. The dead who died, as died that gallant -throng, To shield a cause which in their eyes was just, OUR NOBLE DEAD. 491 Shall live enshrined in story and in song While ages roll above their scattered dust What though for them no marble shaft shall rise? Time shall not see their sacred memory wane : Their scroll of Fame, expansive as the skies, Years of oblivion shall corrode in vain. Heroic deeds are deathless, and they live Unmarred while empires crumble into dust ; They master fame and life, and glory give To storied urn, and animated dust. There rose no sculptured monument to tell Where Spartan valor broke the Persian sway, And yet we know there nobly fought and fell Heroic men in " Old Platea s day." Peace to the ashes of our noble dead, For distant eyes shall behold each name, Brightening like morning when the night is fled, And ever broadening on the disc of fame. Farewell ! ye high heroic hearts, farewell ! Inspired lips shall teach the world, ere long, Ye fought to hallow story, and ye fell To give a new apocalypse to song I NEW YORK FREEMAN S JOURNAI* 492 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. fkMfttg tfe gift. "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. " Tis the very thing I want," she said ; <k Eead 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 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 I 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 I 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." STONEWALL JACKSON ? S WAY. 493 God pity the cheerless Widow Gray, And send from the halls of Eternal Day The light of his peace to illume her way ! timiwatl f COME, stack arms, men, pile on the rails, Stir up the camp-fires bright, No matter if the canteen fails, We ll make a roaring night ! Here Shenandoah brawls along, There lofty Blue Eidge echoes strong To swell the brigade s rousing song Of Stonewall Jackson s Way I" 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 " kaows them 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 I 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 Jackson s Way I" 494: THE {SOUTHERN AMARANTH. He s in the saddle now ! fall in I 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 1 we re with him ere the morn 1 That s " Stonewall Jackson s Way !" The sun s bright glances rout the mists Of morning and by George ! There s Longstreet struggling in the lists, Hemmed in an ugly gorge. Pope and his columns, whipped before. " Bay nets and grape i" hear Stonewall roar ; " Charge, Stewart !" " pay off Ashby s score T Is "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 your hand ! Ah ! wife, sew on, pray on, hope on, Thy life shall not be all forlorn, The foe had better ne er been born Than get in " Stonewall s Way 1" SOUTHEKN ILLTTSTKATED NEWS. STONEWALL JECKSON. 495 BY PAUL H. HAYNE. THE fashions and the forms of men decay, The seasons perish, the calm sunsets die, Ne er with the same bright pomp of cloud or ray To flush the golden pathways of the sky ; All things are lost in dread Eternity States, Empires, Creeds, the Lay Of master Poets, even the shapes of Love, Bear ever with them an invisible Shade, "Whose name is Death ; we cannot breathe nor move, But that we touch the Darkness, till, dismayed, We feel the imperious Shadow freeze our hearts, And mortal Hope grows pale, and fluttering Life de parts ! II. All things are lost in dread Eternity, Save that majestic VIRTUE which is given Once, twice, perchance, beneath our earthly Heaven, To some great soul in ages. Oh ! the lie, The base, incarnate lie we call the World, Shakes at his coming, as the forest shakes, When mountain storms, with bannered clouds unfurled, Kush down and rend it ; sleek Convention drops Its glittering mask, and hoary, cobwebbed rules Of petty charlatans or insolent fools Shrink to annihilation Truth awakes, 496 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. A morning splendor in her fearless eyes, Touching the delicate stops Of some rare lute which breathes of promise fair, Or pouring on the covenanted air A trumpet blast which startles, but makes strong, While ancient Wrong, Driven like a beast from his deep-caverned lair, Grows gaunt, and inly quakes, Knowing that Eetribution draws so near 1 III. Whether with blade, or pen, Toil these immortal men, There s is the Light supreme, which Genius wed To a clear spiritual dower, Hath ever o er the aroused Nations shed Joy, faith, and power ; Whether from wrestling with the God-like Thought, They launch a noiseless blessing on mankind, Or thro wild streams of terrible carnage brought, No longer crushed and blind, Trampled, dishevelled gored, They proudly lift, where kindling soul and eye May feast upon her beauty as she stands, (Girt by the strength of her invincible bands,) And freed through keen redemption of the sword Thy worn, but radiant form, victorious Liberty ! IV. We bow before this grandeur of the spirit ; We worship and adore God s image, burning through it ever more ; And thus, in awed humility to-night, STONEWALL JACKSON. 497 As those wlio at some vast Cathedral door Pause with hushed faces, purified desires, We contemplate His merit, Who lifted Failure- to the heights of Fame, And by the side of fainting, dying Eight, Stood, as Sir Galahad pure. Sir Launcelot brave, The quick, indignant fire Flushing his pale brow from the passionate mind No strength could quell, no sophistry could blind, Until that moment, big with mystic doom, (Whose issue sent O er the long wastes of half a Continent Electric shudders through the deepening gloom,) When in his knightly glory, "Stonewall " fell, And all our hearts sank with him ; for we knew Our staff, our bulwark broken, the fine clew To Freedom snapped, his hand had held alone, Through all the storms of battle overblown Lost, buried, mouldering in our Hero s grave. y. Soul ! so simple, yet sublime I With faith as large, and mild As that of some benignant, trustful child, Who mounts to Heaven on bright, ethereal stairs Of tender- worded prayers Yet strong as if a Titan s force were there To rise, to act, to suffer, and to dare Soul ! that on our Time Wrought, in the calm magnificence of power To ends so noble, that an antique light Of grace and virtue streamed along thy way, Until the direst Lour 498 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Of carnage caught from that immaculate ray A Consecration, and a Sanctity ! Thou art not dead, thou never more cans t die, But wide and far, * Where er on Christian realms the Morning Star Flames round the spires that tower towards the sky- Thy name, a household word, In cottage homes, by palace walls is heard. Breathed with low murmnrs, reverentially ! VI Even as I raise this faltering song to One, Who now beyond the empires of the Sun, Looks down perchance upon our mournful sphere, With the deep pity of seraphic eyes, Fancy unveils the Future, and I see Millions on millions, as year follows year, Gather around our warrior s place of rest In the green shadows of Virginian hills ; Not with the glow of martial blazonry, With trump and muffled drum, Those pilgrim millions come, But with bowed head, and measured footsteps slow, As those who near the presence of a shrine, And feel an air divine, All round about them blandly, sweetly blow, While like dream-music the faint fall of rills, Lapsing from steep to steep, The wood-dove plaining in her covert deep, And the long whisperings of the ghostly Pine, (Like ocean breathings born from tides of sleep,) With every varied melody expressed In Nature s score of solemn harmonies, STONEWALL JACKSON. 499 131ends with a feeling in the reverent breast, Which cannot find a voice in mortal speech, So deep, so deep it lies beyond the reach Of stammering words the Pilgrims only know That slumbering, O ! so calmly there, below The dewy grass, the melancholy trees, Moulders the dust of HIM, By whose crystalline fame, earth s scarlet pomps grow dim, The crowned heir Of TWO majestic immortalities, That which is earthly, and yet scarce of earth, Whose fruitful seeds Were his own grand, self-sacrificing deeds, And that whose awful birth Flowed into instant perfectness sublime, When done with toil and time, He shook from off the raiments of his soul. The weary conflict s desecrating dust, For stern reveilles, heard the angels sing, For battle turmoils found eternal calm, Laid down his stainless sword to clasp the palm, And where vast heavenly organ-notes outroll Melodious thunders, mid the rush of wing, And flash of plume celestial, paused in peace, A rapture of ineffable release To know the long fruition of the Just I LADIES HOME. 500 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY HAKRY L. FLASH, ALABAMA. NOT midst the lightning of the stormy fight, Nor in the rush upon the vandal foe, Did Kingly Death, with his resistless might, Lay the great leader low. His warrior soul his earthly shackles broke In the full sunshine of a peaceful town, When all the storms was hushed, the oak That propped our cause went down. Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, Eecalling all his grand heroic deeds, Freedom herself is writhing in the 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 ! O gracious God ! not gainless in the loss : A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown ; And while his country staggers neath the Cross, He rises with the Crown ! May Wtn, 1863. MONODY ON THE DEATH OF JACKSON. 501 A SONNET. MRS. MAEGARET J. PRESTON. THANK God for such a hero ! Fearless, bold His diamond character beneath the sun, And brighter scintillations, one by one, Come flashing from it. Never knight of old Wore on serener brow, so calm, yet bold, Diviner courage : never martyr knew Trust more sublime, nor patriot zeal more true, Nor saint, self-abnegation of a mould Touched with profounder beauty. . All the rare, Clear, starry points of light, that gave his soul Such lambent lustre, owned but one sole aim, Not for himself, nor yet his country s fame, These glories shone ; he kept the clustered whole A jewel for the crown that Christ shall wear! ON THE DEATH OF GENEKAL STONEWALL JACKSON. BY "THE EXILE." AYE ! toll I toll ! toll ! Toll the funeral bell, And let its mournful echoes roll .From sphere to sphere, from pole to pole, O er the flight of the greatest and kingliest soul That ever in battle felL 502 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Yes, weep ! weep ! weep ! Weep for the hero fled ! For Death the greatest of soldiers, at last Hath over our leader his black pall cast, And from us his noble form hath passed To the home of the mighty dead. Then toll ! and weep ! and mourn 1 Mourn the fall of the brave, For Jackson, whose deeds, made the nation proud^ At whose very name the enemy cowed "With the " crimson cross," for his martial shroud,. Now sleeps his long sleep in the grave. His form has passed away ! His voice is silent and still ; No more at the head of " the Old Brigade," The daring men who were never dismayed, Will he lead them to glory that never will fade,, Stonewall of the Iron- Will. He fell as a hero should fall ! Mid the thunder of war he died ! While the rifle cracked and the cannon roared, And the blood of the friend, and the foeman poured^ He dropped from his nerveless grasp the sword, That erst was the nation s pride. Virginia, his mother, is bowed ! Her tread is heavy and slow ! From all the South comes a wailing moan, And mountains and valleys re-echo the groan, For the gallant chief of her clans has flown, And a nation is filled with woe ! STONEWALL JACKSON. 503 Eest, warrior! rest! Eest in thy laureled tomb ! Thy memory shall live through all of earth s years, And thy name shall excite the despot s fears, While o er thee shall fall a nation s tears, Thy deeds shall not perish in gloom ! RICHMOND SENTINEL. MOETALLY WOUNDED. " The Brigade must not know, sir." WHO VE ye got there?" " Only a dying brother, Hurt in the front, just now." " Good bov, 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, now sir, While there s a foe about !" OF THE UNIVERSITY 504 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Whom have you 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 1 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 THE city stirs this morn ; From careless or from eager lips there floats A rumor onward through the crowded streets, Of one to burial borne A man of heroic mould. And yet the starred flag in the dim, closed air, Floats at its highest. In the shut house of prayer, No passing bell is tolled, And men move on as yesterday, nor deem Their words, my burning tears, have but one bitter theme, For he is gone ! Gone in the bright meridian of his fame I Gone, with his words of power, his soul of flame ! STONEWALL JACKSON. 505 And I live on, Groaning that I should live, That all the worthless thousands round me, those Who were, but dared not prove themselves his foes, Death s malice shouts reprieve ; And he, the victor chief, even on that day "Which he made glorious, yields, subdued to its dark sway ! Oh, can it be that name That brought such cheer to the desponding heart, Forcing the woe-closed lips in smiles apart, Whose lightest whisper came Live thoughts of Heaven s suspended wrath, Swift, unexpected, to the despot THREE Quailing by the Potomac ; can it be, That on the crowded path, Whereon he now is borne, that name is known, A synonym of woe to those he loved, alone ? Still hostile watchfires glow Upon his native soil, still the artillery s roar Is nightly heard on Rappahannock s shore ; And the ungenerous foe Still doth our captive cities sway : But oh ! no more, no more shall he arise Before the morning star is in the skies, And ere the night of day Bring down to naught the invader s lying boast, Offering himself and his, one fiery holocaust Forgive, forgive, oh Lord ! If to the living ingrate as unjust, There lurks in my sad speech that weak distrust 506 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Jy him 1 mourn, abhorred : Not such, not such the wail That rises from his own loved land to-day- He was their pride, their hope Thou, Lord, their stay : Nor wilt thou fail To raise for them, even in this hour of blight, A warrior like to him, as strong, as sure to smite I We bless thee, Lord, for him Who, in a day of cold and sordid vice, Held out against the world, this proud device " Fidelity supreme /" Even in this mammon hold, Men honor him, proclaim with loftier crest, Faith, Loyalty, despite the cynic s jest, Things real are as gold, And feel the age which their lost aims defile, Brightening in his pure fame, become less base, less vile ! Take him Virginia, to thy soil, Now more than ever sacred ; guard his dust, Ye generations, as a sacred trust, Till hushed in earth s turmoil, The loved, the venerated ; Let them repose, where by Shenandoah s flood, A red Asperges of young Southern blood His grave has consecrated I Where sleep they well neath many a grassy heap, Who shared on earth his deeds, his grand compan ionship. STONEWALL JACKSON. 507 The weak heart throbs To think how great we would have made him ; now A dirge, this little rood of globe, the flow Of woman s tears, and strong man s sobs Are all that we can give. Vain murmurer ! End thy plaints ! when all of these Who mourn his fate, the merest memories Have ceased for aye to live, It shall be told, while earth is man s abode, How the great soul, to which all corning time Made Stonewall Jackson s name a sound sublime, Went on its way to God. BY VIRGINIA MADISON. (s. A. BROCK). Daring the session of 1862 and 63, the Confederate Congress passed a reso lution to adopt for the banner of the Southern Confederacy, instead of the " Stars and Bars, 1 the " Cross of St. Andrew," a saltier of eleven stars on a ribbon of blue and ground of red, the field of the flag being white. General Stonewall Jackson died on the 10th of May, 1863. The first use made of th& new flag, was for his PALL. BENEATH the Hope-born " Stars and Bars," That lit the world with glory, And gave to History s classic page New theme for song and story He towered aloft like comet bright, All glowing in mid-heaven, Then sank, as might the noonday sun, Before had come the even . 508 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Fame bowed to him her crested head, And with her laurels bound him ; While Honor s bright and fadeless wreath Of gems immortelle crowned him : Yictory upon his helmet perched, Where er his glances, beaming, Fell o er the raging storm of strife, That flashed with armor s gleaming : We dared to think, with pagan thought, He scarcely could be mortal That Death for him would ne er unclose Its dark and fearful portal ; But in the zenith s glorious height, His star, when brightest shining, Went out ! in total darkness quenched ! Without a ray s declining. We saw him lying cold and still, In Death s embrace so calmly ; And on his star-crossed, snowy pall, Our briny tears fell warmly : Ah ! we had prayer twould be baptized, With his firm hand sustaining, He, sponsor in the holy cause That Eight was brave maintaining ; For never yet, bove battle s blast, Had waved this proud labarum ; Never, this child of Faith and Hope, Had thrilled to war s alarum ; Had ne er been pierced with shell or ball, This emblematic cluster ; STONEWALL JACKSON S PALL. 509 No stain of life-blood yet had marred Its glistening, snowy lustre. He looked so like a babe asleep A smile his features lighting, Nor recked he that a sullen cloud Our Cause was slow benighting ; The dreamless sleep that knows no morn, Alas ! too surely bound him, He lay, unconscious of our woe The new-born flag around him ! Twas meet ! for he the Cross had borne On many a hard-fought battle, And every breath had raised a prayer Above War s wildest rattle : Unto the Cross, with childlike faith, He looked for help salvation And his mute lips then gave the kiss Of holy consecration ! Did ever banner have before Such glorious, grand baptism ? "Was ever standard-sheet anoint With such immortal chrism ? Twas Jackson s blood first stained its folds Oh ! gracious exaltation ! And gave his pall unto the world The Banner of his nation. That pall ? tis furled, no more to wave O er hearts that "hailed it gladly," 510 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. O er hearts that loved it wildly well, That loved it fiercely, madly But all adown the steps of Time, Though tattered, grimed, and gory, Twill live in records of -the Past, An Oriflamme of Glory ! SUSAN ARCHER TALLY. I SEE the broad, red, setting sun Sink slowly down the sky ; I see, amid the cloud-built tents, His blood-red standard fly ; And meek, meanwhile, the pallid moon Looks from her place on high. Oh, setting sun, awhile delay ! Linger on sea and shore ; Eor thousand eyes now gaze on thee, That shall not see thee more ; A thousand hearts beat proudly now, Whose race, like thine, is o er ! Oh, ghastly moon ! thy pallid ray On paler brows shall lie ! On many a torn and bleeding heart, On many a glazing eye ; And breaking hearts shall live to mourn, For whom twere bliss to die ! STONEWALL JACKSON. 511 ON THE DEATH OF LIEUT. GEN. JACKSON. BY MRS. CATHERINE A. WARFLELD, KENTUCKY. 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, Ray less beneath its marble lid, Repose, thou mighty one ! Yet ill our cause could spare thee, And neath the blow of fate, That struck its staunchest pillar From neath our dome of State. Of thee as of the Douglass, We say with Scotland s king, " There is not one to take his place In all the mighty ring 1" 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 to thy might. 512 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. That name was worth a legion In charge or battle call, Twas joy to see the cravens fly At the shouting of " Stonewall 1" Twas pride to mark thy phalanx Sweep onward like a blast, That clears the leaves of autumn From the forest, fierce and fast Twas glory twas derision To mark the bloody rout, When, as signal for the panic, The Southern yell rang out ; And thou, oh, mighty leader, Breasting the battle s van, Didst seem amid the sullen roar, More demi-god than man. Go, warrior, it is over, No more shall bugle note Arouse thee, stern and prayerful Nor banner o er thee float ; Nor sound of shell and cannon, Make music to thy ear, In the sultry tide of battle Thou liest on thy bier. "We may not weep above thee, This is no time for tears, Thou would st not brook their shedding, Oh saint among thy peers. Couldst thou look from yonder Heaven, Above us smiling spread, STONEWALL JACKSON. 513 Thou would st not have us paufie 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 in his track, Dare any Southron give the rein To feeling and look back I No, still the cry is " onward /" This is no time for tears, No, still the word is " vengeance /" Leave ruth for coming years. "We will snatch thy glorious banner From thy dead and stiffening hand, (The one thy foeman spared the grave) And bear it through the land. And all who mark it streaming Oh ! soldier of the cross I Shall gird them with a fresh resolve Of loyalty for loss. Whilst thou, enrolled a martyr, Thy sacred mission shown, Shall lay the record of our wrongs Before the eternal Throne I THE SOUTHERN AMAKANTH. "About half-past one o clock, lie (Stonewall Jackson) was told that he had but one hour to live ; and he answered again feebly but firm ly, Very good, it is all right. A few moments before he died, he cried out in delirium, Order A. P. Hill to prepare for action ! Pass the infantry to the front rapidly ! Tell Major Hawks then stopped, leaving the sentence unfinished. Presently, a smile of in effable sweetness spread itself over his pale face, and he said quietly, and with an expression as if of relief, Let us cross over the river, and rest under the shade of the trees ; and then without pain or the least struggle, his spirit passed from earth to the God who gave it." HUNTEB MAGUTRE, M. D.* COME let us cross tlie 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 cause so blighting, produces fruit so fair ! Come, let us cross the river, those that have gone before, Crushed 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. Come, let us cross the river, the stream that runs so dark; "Pis 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. * Late Medical Director of Stonewall Jackson s command. OVER THE RIVER. 515 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. BY E. DE MONDION. THE camp was hushed, the midnight passed, But the warriors their vigil kept ; For the shadows of death were gathering fast, O er the couch where their chieftain slept In dreams he welcomes the angel guest, And the land of promise sees ; " Let us cross over the river and rest Under the shade of the trees !" Oh ! sorrowful night to that weary host! For the warriors knew full well That the brightest hope of their cause was lost, When its trusted soldier fell. For victory clave to the legions that pressed Where his flag waved to the breeze He has left them to cross the river and rest Under the shade of the trees. The arm unnerved the strong heart cold And yet the task undone ! And hushed the calm clear voice, that told How battles should be won ! 516 THE SOUTHEBN AMAKANTH. But on what tomb are words more blest In memory s shrine, than these ; " Let us cross over the river and rest Under the shade of the trees 1" MBS. MAKGAEET J. PBESTON. A SIMPLE, sodded mound of earth, Without a line above it ; "With only, daily votive flowers To prove that any love it ; The token flag that silently Each breeze s visit numbers ; Alone keeps martial ward above The hero s dreamless slumbers. No name? no record ? ask the world; The world has read his story, If all its annals can unfold A prouder tale of glory. If ever merely human life Hath taught diviner moral ; If ever round a worthier brow- Was twined a purer laurel Humanity s responsive heart Concedes his wondrous powers ; And pulses with a tenderness STONEWALL JACKSON S GRAVE. 517 Almost akin to ours ; Nay not to ours ! for us he poured His life, a rich libation, And on adoring souls we wear This .blood of consecration. A twelvemonth only, since his sword Went flashing through the battle A twelvemonth only, since his ear Heard "War s last deadly rattle And yet have countless pilgrim feet, The pilgrim s guerdon paid him ; And weeping women come to see The place where they have laid him. Contending armies * bring in turn, Their meed of praise or honor, And Pallas here, has paused, to bind The cypress wreath upon her : It seems a Holy Sepulchre Whose sanctities can waken Alike the love of friend or foe, Of Christian or of Pagan. They come to own his high emprise, Who fled in frantic masses ; Before the glittering bayonet, That triumphed at Manassas : * In the month of June, the singular spectacle was presented at Lexington, Virginia, of two hostile armies, in turn, reverently visiting ^the grave of Stonewall Jackson. 518 THE SOUTHEEN AMARANTH. Who witnessed Kerntown s fearful As on their ranks he thundered ; Defiant as the storied Greek Amid his brave three hundred. They well recall the tiger spring, The wise retreat, the rally, The tireless march, the fierce pursuit, Through many a mountain valley : Cross Keys unlocked new paths to fame r And Port Eepublic s story ; "Wrests from his ever vanquished foes, Strange tributes to his glory. Cold Harbor rises to their view, The Cedar s gloom is o er them ; And Antietam s rough wooded heights. Stretch mockingly before them ; The lurid flames of Fredericksburg Eight grimly they remember, That lit the frozen night s retreat, That wintry, wild December. The largesse of their praise is flung With bounty rare and regal ; Is it because the vulture fears No longer the dead eagle ? Nay rather far, accept it thus ; An homage true and tender, As soldier unto soldier s worth, As brave to brave will render. STONEWALL JACKSON S GKAYE. 519 But who shall weigh the wordless grief That leaves its tears in traces, As round their leader crowd again The bronzed and veteran faces ! The Old Brigade he loved so well, The mountain men who bound him With bays of their own winning, ere A tardier fame had crowned him. The legions who had seen his glance Across the carnage flashing, And thrilled to catch his ringing " CHAEGE 1" Above the volley crashing. Who oft had watched the lifted head, The inward trust betraying, And felt their courage grow sublime While they beheld him praying. Good knights and true as ever drew Their swords with trusty Eoland, Or died at Sobieski s side For love of martyred Poland, Or knelt with Cromwell s iron-sides, Or sang with brave Grustavus ; Or on the plains of Austerlitz Breathed out their dying Aves. Eare fame ! rare name ! If chanted praise With all the world to listen, If pride that swells a nation s soul, If foeman s tears that glisten 520 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. If pilgrim s shining love if grief "Which nought may soothe or sever, If THESE, can consecrate, this spot Is sacred ground forever. LEXINGTON, VA., June, 1864. The Bev. Dr. Moore, of Richmond, in a sermon in memory of our beloved and lamented General Stonewall Jackson, narrates the fol lowing incident : " Previous to the first battle of Manassas, when the troops under Stonewall Jackson had made a forced march, on halting at night they fell on the ground exhausted and faint. The hour arrived for setting the watch for the night. The officer of the day went to the Gener al s tent and said : " General, the men are all wearied, and there is not one, but is asleep. Shall I wake them ?" "No," said the noble Jackson, "let them sleep, and I will watch the camp to-night." " And all night long he rode round that lonely camp, the one lone sentinel, for that brave, but weary and silent body of Virginia heroes. And when glorious morning broke, the soldiers awoke fresh and ready for action, all unconscious of the noble vigils kept over their slumbers." BY JAMES. B. BANDALL. * TWAS as the dying of the day, The darkness grew so still, The drowsy pipe of evening birds "Was hushed upon the hill. THE LONE SEMINAL. 521 Athwart the shadows of the vale Slumbered the men of might, And one lone sentry paced his rounds To watch the camp that night A grave and solemn man was he, With deep and sombre brow ; The dreamful eyes seemed hoarding up Some unaccomplished vow. The wistful glance peered o er the plain, Beneath the starry light, And, with the murmured name of God, He watched the camp that night. The future opened unto him, Its grand and awful scroll Manassas and the valley march Came heaving o er his soul ; Eichmond and Sharpsburg thundered by, "With that tremendous fight, That gave him to the angel host, "Who watched the camp that night We mourn for him who died for us, With one resistless moan, While up the valley of the Lord, He marches to the Throne ! He kept the faith of men and saints Sublime, and pure and bright ; He sleeps and all is well with him Who watched the camp that night. 522 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Brothers ! the midnight of the cause Is shrouded in our fate The demon Goths pollute our halls With fire, and lust, and hate ! Be strong, be valiant, be assured Strike home for Heaven and Bight I The soul of Jackson stalks abroad, A.nd guards the camp to-night I BY THE KILKENNY MAN. I. GOD rest you ! Stonewall Jackson Now your gallant heart is still, And your soul has fled its temple, At the Great Jehovah s will. II. Ah. ! you were our chosen idol, As we watched the raging war - The olive-leaf whose glossy green Shut out the Northern star. III. In the Shenandoah Yalley We have marked your glory risey. Whilst the howls of flying foemen Echoed up the mocking skies. STONEWALL JACKSON. ., 523 IV. And amid the deep Blue Mountains We have seen your bannered braves, Till, like a wood of cypresses, They shadowed Northern graves. Y. At Fredericksburg, at Sharpsburg, Thy sabre marked the way, And thy name, along the Northern ranks, Brought terror and dismay. YI. And here, all thro fair Ireland, It woke a magic spell, To see thee, glorious Southron, Fight the great fight so well, For home and sacred altars, For a darling country s weal, Till you graved the name of Freedom With a warrior s flashing steel 1 YII. The Northman and the Southern, The Saxon and the Celt, The Olive s sheen, the Shamrock s green, Are colors ready blent Blent in the hue of Ireland, With a cause her very own Whether speared by a Eepublic, Or shackled to a Throne. 524 THE SOUTHEKN AMAKANTH. YIIL Tis a struggle still for Freedom, At home and thus abroad Thy cause, oh, gallant Jackson I For which you prayed to God For which you fought unflinchingly, And lived, and loved, and died, With a Christian s love of Fatherland. A patriot s joyous pride ! IX. Then, God rest you, Stonewall Jackson, Now your gallant heart is still, And your soul has fled its temple, At the Great Jehovah s will ; But your mission will be fruitful, Whilst one noble heart survives, For, the spirit leaves its traces After all such brilliant lives. X. Yes, your mission sets us thinking, Hoping, praying, for our own, Tor the beauteous Mother Ireland ! At her every tear aod groan, That there rise some gallant Jackson, Like the great one o er the sea, And a Beauregard, and Johnson, And a Davis, and a Lee I DUBLIN NATION. WHO SHALL BE OUR STANDARD-BEARER. 525 BY CHAHLES DIMITEY. I. BROTHERS ! when our cannons rust are, And our children s children dust are, Who shall pierce the tears and laughter Of the days to come hereafter With the mem ry of his story Whose the triumph and the glory Of the man who bore the standard, Chiefest, in the struggling vanguard Who was greater, purer, rarer Who shall be our standard-bearer ? II. Who was he who, great as good, In the breach supremely stood, A simple man, a soldier true, When, around his country s shrine, Gather d threat ning war aftd drew Gainst our waiting stalwart few Half a hundred thousand men, Southward pour d from hill and glen, Hank on rank and line on line, Till the cloud of havoc grew Black in Heaven s sight, and burst In a storm of guns accurst Where the swarming hosts came down Gainst the fair beleaguered town ? 526 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Then our greatest soldier came At the setting of the sun ! Pierced the doubtful battle s flame, And with devastating blow Struck the hostile standard low, And each broke] i regiment Back through midnight chaos sent, Eed with blood and pale with shame 1 So the stubborn field was won 1 III. Ye saw him, mountains of Luray, When banded battle spent its pride In one long week of dolorous fray Against his slender ranks in vain, Till like a lion, galled, at bay, Yex d by the hunter s cries and stir, He turned and pour d the bloody charge Of dauntless men at Winchester, And as the tempest lifts the main Swept Port Kepublic s flaming marge, And Northward ever, and afar, Koll d back the wreck-encumber d tide With storm of swift, disastrous war 1 IY. A day of rest a time of pause 1 And lo ! once more the menaced cause Called unto him, her chiefest son, From warring Eichmond, where the brunt Of battle shook the city s front I Then, answering, came our trusted one From Shenandoah s rocky glen, Articulate in roar of gun WHO SHALL BE OUR STANDARD-BEARER. 527 And cheers of greatly daring men, And roll of fierce, avenging drums, And din of clam rous war that filled With sudden fear the hostile rank, Till higher, higher, higher thrill d The peal of battle on the flank, And seaward swept the foeman down. And jubilant grew the rescued town, "While all our soldiers with acclaim Threw up their hats with fierce hurrah, And cheered and blest his simple name, Crying, " Behold ! our greatest comes ! Our chiefest chief our Joshua ! And later when Manassas plain The hurly-burly felt again, And rush of charging squadrons knew, And saw once more the bleeding rout His loud defying bugles blew, And long victorious flags threw out, Before the walls of Washington I Y. Again, O trusty chief ! awake Thy cannons for thy country s sake 1 By Bappahannock s furrowed heath, Above the bleak December snows, Anon the countless standard rose And c arge-compelling trumpet s blare From Falmouth fed the hungry air, The while, on every windy slope Our guns gave greeting to the foe, And swept the surging ranks with death ! Then rose in wrath our country s hope, 528 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And bared his strong right arm to slayy And where the battle s hottest breath Gave fiercest warning to the fray, Smote, with a sudden, desperate blow, The circumventing ranks, and lo 1 The storm of conflict passed away I YI. Who saw him at the last ! "When Kappahannock s ruined fane The loud artillery shook again ! Who saw him when he passed, Grave and calm and resolute, Through the tangled Wilderness, Foeward, while the sullen roar Of distant guns the May wind bore An hour within the jungle mute An hour of terrible pause ! while he Pray d unto God for victory And all his arms that day to bless Then gave the foeman to the sword ! And though the covert s mazes swept With battle s multitudinous clang, And where the hostile columns crept An avalanche of fire poured, And shoreward hurl d th invading pow r I And all that desperate, turbulent day Kose with the greatness of the fray, Until that dark, calamitous hour A bleeding country s doom and knell When ambushed tongues of flame out-leapt, A sudden murderous volley rang And lo ! in Victory s arms our standard-bearer fell I THE STONEWALL CEMETERY. 529 VII. Beat, funeral drums ! For our mighty Captain comes, Dead and lowly as the least he led I Weep, beleaguered town, For thy tower shaken down, And thy steadfast, firm protector dead I Good he was and great I Well he loved his State, And in his heart did ever wear her I Wherefore shall she pray For his rest alway Her leader and her great sword-bearer I YIIL Brothers ! when our cannons rust are, And our children s children dust are, He shall pierce the tears and laughter Of the days to come hereafter With the mem ry of his story And the fullness of our glory ! He was greater, purer, rarer He shall be our standard-bearer I NEW ORLEANS SUNDAY TnvTRfl. NFW YOKE, August, 1867. Lines written by MRS. M. K. CLARK, (" TENELLA") of North Carolina, in behalf of the * Stonewall Cemetery, " Winchester, Va. " THE storm of war which swept our country wide, Like snow-flakes scattered graves on every side, H ere, heaped in drifts on battle fields they lie, 530 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. There, dropped like leaves, where soldiers chanced to die! Back to their homes our State has brought Some honored sons who for her freedom fought, And where their feet in youth and manhood strayed Beneath their native sod her children laid ; That kindred hands with loving care may keep The graves in which her cherished soldiers sleep. Thus to her heart in close embrace she drew Her G-ORDON, FENDER, BRANCH, and PETTIGREW. But ah ! there s many a one as leal and brave, Who slumbers in a soldier s unmarked grave, Buried just where he fell by friend or foe, Without one sign by which his State may know, Now that the fearful conflict s wholly done, What mound enfolds the ashes of her son. Right nobly did she do her part to fill, Those unmarked graves which dot each vale and hill, Where bravely fought, and oh ! how bravely died, Virginia s boast, and Carolina s pride ! The grand, gigantic Stonewall of our cause, Whose name we breathe, and then in reverence pause. And shall they lie uncared for where they fell, Without one mark the soldier s grave to tell ? Were they not Jackson s boys ? and does not he Stand in our hearts beside immortal Lee ? Ah ! for his sake Virginia s daughters ask, Each sister State to aid them in their task, And ere their graves like snow flakes melt away, The bones of JACKSON S boys together lay, That they in death may sleep beneath that name Which shed upon their lives its rays of fame. i MISEBEKE. 631 BY MISS EvA M. POKTEB, AT.ATU1VTA. HOLY MARY ! Thou liast known the woe of life, Thou art past the bitter strife, Look upon us from thy rest Bear our sorrows on thy breast, Holy Mary ! By thy gentle name I bear By this womanhood I wear, Broken-hearted ! Let me lean On thy bosom Heaven Queen ! Miserere ! Holy Mary ! Does the blood heroic shed Cry in vain ? Alas, our dead ! May I see the patriot s name High in Heaven through sword and flame, Holy Mary ! May the purple path they trod Lead my weary feet to God ; Slumberers on historic plain, Teach my hand to wear its chain, Miserere ! Holy Mary ! Crown the victories ; they have won Freedom through thy martyred son, 532 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Lo ! the silvered cross is high. Borne aloft to Southern sky I Holy Mary ! Gloria I for those who fell On their spotless shields, tis well ! Sigh thou with us stricken band, Miserere, motherland ! Miserere ! Holy Mary ! Giant sorrows drag their length, Noiseless in their deadly strength j I have wept, ah, let me weep ! Keck my tearless heart to sleep, Holy Mary ! Guide me to thy sweet relief. By our sister-hood of grief, Bear the Father every cry, "Woman angel ! sigh for sigh I Miserere 1 LADIES HOME. IN the cool sweet hush of a wooded nook, Where the May-buds sprinkle the green old mound r And the winds and the birds and the limped brook, Murmur their dreams with a drowsy sound ; Who lies so still in the plushy moss, With his pale cheek pressed on a breezy pillow, MISSING. 533 Couched where the lights and the shadows cross Thro the flickering fringe of the billow, Who lies, alas ! So still, so chill, in the whispering grass ? A soldier clad in the Zouave dress, A bright-haired man, with his lips apart, One hand thrown up o er his frank, dead face And the other clutching his pulseless heart, Lies there in the shadows cool and dim, His musket swept by a trailing bough "With a careless grace in his quiet limbs, And a wound in his manly brow ; A wound, alas ! Whence the warm blood drips in the quiet grass. And the violets peer from their dusky beds, With a tearful dew in their great, pure eyes. And the lilies quiver their shining heads, Their pale lips full or sad surprise ; And the lizard darts thro the glistening fern And the squirrel rustles the branches hoary Strange birds fly out with a cry, to bathe Their wings in the sunset glory. While the shadows pass O er the quiet face and the dewy grass. God pity the bride who waits at home With her lily cheeks and her violet eyes, Dreaming the sweet old dream of love, While her lover is walking in Paradise ; God strengthen her heart as the days go by And the long drear nights of her vigil follow, 534 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Nor bird nor moon, nor whispering wind May breathe the tale of the hollow ; Alas ! alas ! The secret is safe in the woodland grass* DEAD ! Well, I have written the word, and I gaze On it still, and again, Till the four simple letters turn up in a blaze And sear deep in my brain. Ah ! proudly my first-born sprang up to the fight, And /gave him his sword, And I bade him watch well that his name was as bright^ And as stainless his word. Was that time for weeping ? I conquered a groan For a cheerful good-bye ; God knows how the stillness of night heard me How his ear met my cry. And then came the praises. He, first everywhere, He, my blessing ! my pride ! It was mine, all his mother s, the guerdon to share In my joy, fear allied. * One battle : another and spared to me still ; God ! Thy mercy is great 1 But one more day s conflict is yet to fulfill I ponder, and wait DEAD. 535 Not too long ! not too long ! oh ! no, never too long, For my sentence is read, And, sitting here still, with mj prayer to be strong, They bring me my dead.- Dead ! I summon ye mothers who suffer as I, (For we wail not alone) To stand by this bier-side, and answer my cry, If this, this be my son. My hero laid here, with the shouts going forth For a victory won ? Ah ! patriots I know what a victory s worth, When it leaves me forlorn. These temples cut through, with a round cruel hole, Under the blood-dabbled hair These dear lips, this breast that my weak arms enfold, Echo not my despair. "Well, the world goes by tamely men smile as they smiled, And the black hours roll past Over me in my grief me, bereft of my child, Waiting on for the last ! Life s happiness finished, I finish its fear ; Oh ! my bright angel one ! For thee higher glory for me, to watch here By the sepulchre stone I RICHMOND EXAMINEE. 636 THE SOUTHERN AMAKANTH. BY WM. GOEDON MC CAEE, MARYLAND. SWEET Malvern Hill is wreathed in flame, From serried ranks the steel is gleaming ; Our legions march to death and fame, Their battle flags right wildly streaming. Each hero bares his manly breast, And gallant hearts are fiercely beating ; With steady tramp they line the crest, O er which an iron hail is sleeting. Up loom the bastions grim and large, Thro battle smoke that s lowering near them ; The little drummers roll " the charge," And dying comrades raise to cheer them. Twice forty guns with deadly* aim, Strike down our lines in tones of thunder; Yet still they press with eyes aflame, Till Valor s self looks on in wonder. ****** But now the human tide rolls back A ghastly remnant grim and gory And countless heroes mark the track Which led them up to heights of Glory ! But ONE still presses on amain, . Where double-shotted guns are frowning ; Above, amidst the iron rain, He nobly wins a hero s crowning. * After the battle of Malvern Hill, a soldier was found dead fifty yards in advance of any officer or man his musket firmly grasped in his rigid fingers, name unknown, simply " 2 La." on his cap. AN UNKNOWN HERO. 537 Through all the battle-smoke he d seen The saintly forms of angels bearing The laurels crowns, forever green, To wreathe the foreheads of the daring. And eager for his priceless crown The bastions scarce a length before him The stalwart form at length went down, With Death and Honor bending o er him. Brave soldier of our Southern clime, No stately song nor brilliant story Shall hand thy name to future time As one who gained immortal glory. But Freedom, with her mailed hand, Has paused to brush a tear of sorrow, And placed thee with that chosen band, Who freely pour their life s-blood for her. And Yalor, with her royal brow, And Honor, with her stately bearing, Have surely felt a prouder glow, When musing on thy peerless daring. O gallant soldier all unknown, Though noisy Fame, we know, shall never Proclaim thy deeds through every zone, A hero s crown is thine forever I CAMP NEAB RICHMOND, 1862. ILLUSTRATED NEWS. 538 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. CUE EIGHT EETEEEND FATHER IN GOD, LEONIDAS POLK. BISHOP OF THE DIOCESE OF LOUISIANA, LIEUTENANT GENERAL, CONFEDERATE STATES ARMY. BY FANNY DOWNING. 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 I 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 I Within the vale Of Heaven s great temple, is thy blissful dwelling Bathed in light, to which the sun is pale, Archangels hymns in endless transport 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 f As De Profundis they are singing. IN MEMORIAM. 53$ 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 Sustains 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 p " Well done, oh ! faithful child, well done, Taste thou the mercies of thy Lord I" "No dull decay nor lingering pain, By slow degrees consumed thy health^ A glowing messenger of flame Translated thee by fiery death ! Arid we who in our 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 1" 540 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY HAEKY L. FLASH. Killed before Kennesaw Mountain, June 1.<tih, 1864. A FLASH from the edge of the hostile trench, A puff of smoke, a roar, Whose echo shall roll from the Kennesaw hills To the farthermost Christian shore, Proclaims to the world that the warrior-priest Will battle for right no more ! And that for a cause which is sanctified, By the blood of martyrs unknown A cause for which they gave their lives, And for which he gave his own He kneels, a meek ambassador, At the foot of the Father s Throne. And up in the courts of another world Which angels alone have trod, He lives away from the din and strife Of this blood-besprinkled sod, Crowned by the amaranthine wreath, That is worn by the blest of Grod. BY "LATIENNE." FROM the broad and calm Potomac, To the Kio Grande s waves ; Have the brave and noble fallen And the earth is strewn with graves. THE CONFEDERATE DEAD, 541 In the vale and on the hill-side, Through the woods and by the stream^ Has the martial pageant faded, Like the vision of a dream. Where the reveille resounded And the stirring call " to arms I" Nod the downy heads of clover To the wind s mesmeric charms ; Where the heels of trampling squadrons Beat to dust the mountain pass, Hang the dew-drop s fragile crystal, From the slender stems of grass. Where the shock of meeting armies Eoused the air in raging waves, And with sad and hollow groanings, Echoed earth s deep, hidden caves ; Where the cries of crushed and dying Pierced the elemental strife, Where lay death in sickening horror Neath the maddened rush of life, Quiet reigns now sweet and pensive, All is hushed in dreamless rest, And the pitying arms of Nature Hold our heroes on her breast. Shield them well, oh tender mother, While the morn and evening breath Whispers us, the sad survivors Of their victory in death. 542 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. What though no stately column, Their cherished names may raise, To dim the eyes, and move the lips With gratitude and praise The blue sky hung with bannered clouds, Their solemn dome shall be, All heaven s choiring winds shall chant The anthem of the free. The spring with vine-leafed arms shall clasp, Their hillocked resting places ; And summer roses droop above. With flushed and dewy faces ; Fair daisies rayed, and crowned, shall spring Like stars from out their dust, And look to kindred stars on high, With eyes of patient trust. And vainly shall the witlings lips Assail with envious dart, The fame of our heroic dead Whose stronghold is the heart The Nation s heart not wholly crushed, Though each throb be in pain, For life and hope will still survive Where love and faith remain. EUFAULA, ALA., 1865. METROPOLITAN BEOOBDU IN MEMOKIAM. 543 tt GENERAL JOHN B. FLOYD. BY EULALIE. THE noble hero calmly sleeps, Unheeding all life s surging woes, An angel guard its vigil keeps Above his couch of deep repose. How still that brain ! once full of thought ; How calm that pulse, which wildly beat ; Grim death the mighty change hath wrought, And now he lies in rest most sweet Hushed to his ear the siren s song ; Hushed is the clarion trump of fame ; No more applauds the listening throng His rich tones thrill them not again ! O "Virginia mourns her gallant son, Whose voice of wisdom charmed her heart; How many a noble conquest won, When he, from virtue would not part And on the battle s gory field When foes assailed our Southern land, His dauntless spirit would not yield But boldly met the invading band. 544 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. With anxious cares Ms soul harassed ; What sleepless nights his pillow found ; But now, those bitter pangs are past He heeds no more the bugle s sound ! He sleeps in Jesus, blissful sleep ; His cares forgotten, sorrow o er, With loved ones, where no eye can weep, He treads in peace the Eternal shore. That eagle eye now sweeps through space, And reads the open book of love ; That voice shall to the Lamb give praise While endless cycles onward move I NEW YOKE NEWS, Wood Lawn, Aprtt, 1866. IN MEMORIAM. [WHILE confined as a prisoner of war at Camp Chase, Colonel William S. Hawkins, of Tennessee, a gallant soldier of the C. S. A., became favorably known to Northern readers as a poet. At the time of his death, which oc curred shortly after his release from captivity, he had in preparation a volume entitled "Behind the Bars." This memorial tribute is from a friend in Nash ville.] NOT now (alas ! for us), not now, Our warrior-poet dreams of fame Behind those " Bars" where gleamed a brow Lit up with glory s lambent flame. OF THH UNIVERSITY COL. W. S. HAWKINS. 545 II. Mute witnesses those bars have been To noble deeds and lofty strains ; There, resignation dwelt unseen, And manly impulse, bound in chains, in. There, self-reliance reached its height, And gentle self-denial came, Through many a dark and bitter night, To twine immortelles round his name. IV. And there, where vice, in horrid tones With foulness shocked the shuddering air, Blaspheming through impotent groans, He stilled the tempest oft with prayer. v. There, too, when squalid ignorance groped In wan despair for death s release, He soothed and cheered till lost ones hoped, And, dying, blessed the words of peace. VI. The prison-house that holds him now, All windowless and dark for aye, No friendly glimpses may allow, For bars eternal close the way. VII. "Dust unto dust" is God s decree, The noblest cannot but fulfil ; 546 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Yet wide, unbounded liberty His franchised soul inherits still. vm. Oh ! free to sing and soar away, Untrammelled by one earthly bar, Back to the source of endless day His spirit speeds from star to star. BY JAMES R. EANDALL. JUST as the Spring came laughing through the strife, With all its gorgeous cheer, In the bright April of historic life Fell the great cannoneer. The sudden lulling of a hero s breath, His bleeding country weeps, Hushed in the alabaster arms of Death, Our young Marcellus sleeps ! Nobler and grander than the child of Kome, Curbing his chariot steeds, The knightly scion of a Southern home, Dazzled the land with deeds. Gentlest and bravest in the battle brunt, The champion of Truth, He bore his banner to the very front Of our immortal youth. JOHN PELHAM. 547 A cloud of sabres mid Virginian snow, The fiery rush of shells And there s a wail of immemorial woe In Alabama dells. The pennon droops that led the sabred band Along the crimson field ; The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand, Over the spotless shield. We gazed, and gazed upon that beauteous face, "While round the lips and eyes, Couched in the marble slumber, flashed the grace Of a divine surprise. O Mother of a blessed soul on high ! Thy tears may soon be shed Think of thy boy with princes of the sky, Among the Southern dead. How must he smile on this dull world beneath, Fevered with swift renown He with the martyr s amaranthine wreath, Twining the victor s crown. March 17th, 1863. 548 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. in tin HEARD AFTER PELHAM DIED. BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE. OH, band in the pine-wood cease ! Cease with your splendid call ; The living are brave and noble, But the dead are bravest of all ! They throng to the martial summons, To the loud triumphant strain, And the clear bright eyes of long dead friendsy Come to the heart again ! They come with the ringing bugle, And the deep drums mellow roar ; Till the soul is faint with longing For the hands we clasp no more ! Oh, band in the pine-wood cease ! Or the heart will melt with tears, For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips ; And the voices of old years. SOTTTHEBN ILLUSTEATED NEWS. THE swallow leaves the ancient eaves As in the days agone, The wheaten fields are all ablaze, And in and out the west wind plays, Amid the tasseled corn. THE UNRETUENING. 549 The sun s rays light as warm and bright On clover fields all red ; The wild bird wakes his simple song As joyfully, the whole day long, As if he were not dead. The summer skies with softest sighs, Their rain and sunshine send, And standing in the farm-house door, I see dotting the landscape o er The flocks he used to tend. The woodbine grows the jasmin blows Beside the window-sill ; Their soft sweet sigh is in the air, For the dear hands that placed them there, On the red field are still. Around the wolds the summer folds Her wreath of golden light, And, past the willow s silvery gleam, I catch the glimmering of the stream, And lilies, cool and white. But oh ! one shade has solemn made The sunshine and the bloom, His voice, whose sweet and gentle words, Were sweeter than the song of birds, Is silent in the tomb. How can the day so bright and gay Glare round the farm-house door? When all the quiet ways he trod By leafy wood or blooming sod, Shall know him never more ! 550 THE SOUTHEBN AMARANTH. BY W. WINSTON FONTAINE, VIRGINIA,. MOUKN, mourn along thy mountains high I Mourn, mourn along thine ocean wave 1 Virginia mourn ! thy bravest brave Has struck for thee his last good blow I 0, south wind breathe thy softest sigh, young moon, shed thy gentlest light Ye silver dews come weep to-night, To honor Stuart lying low ! The princeliest scion of a royal race,f The knightliest of his knightly name, The imperial brow encrowned by fame, Lies pallid on his mother s breast t How sadly tender is her face, Virginia dearly loved this son, And now his glorious race is run ! Tearful she bows her. martial crest She bows her head in the midst of war, With booming cannon rumbling round, Mid crash of musket and the sound Of drum and trumpet clanging wild. * Died of a wound received at Yellow Tavern, near Eichmond, Vir ginia, May llth, 1864. f General J. E. B. Stuart, sprang from the Boyal House of Scot land. STUART. 551 Fierce cries of fight rise near and far ; Bat " dulce et decorum est" For him who nobly falls to rest, Virginia monrns her peerless child I The fair young wife bewails her lord, The blooming maidens weep for him, Fierce trooper s eyes with tears grow dim, And all, all mourn the chieftain dead ! Place by his side his trusty sword, Now cross his hands upon his breast I And let the glorious warrior rest, Enshrouded in his banner red. No more our courtly cavalier Shall lead his squadrons to the fight ! No more ! no more ! his sabre bright Shall dazzling flash in foeman s eyes ; No more ! no more ! his ringing cheer Shall fright the Northman in his tent, Nor swift as eagle in descent, Shall he the boastful foe surprise. . But when his legions meet the foe "With gleaming sabre lifted high, His name shall be their battle cry, His name shall steel them in the fray ! And many a Northman neath the blow Of Southern brand shall strew the ground, While on the breeze the slogan sound Stuart ! Stuart ! shall ring dismay. 552 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Mourn, mourn along thy mountains high ! Mourn, mourn along thine ocean wave ! Virginia mourn, thy bravest brave Has struck for thee his last good blow I south wind, breathe thy softest sigh, young moon, shed thy tenderest light, Ye silver dews, come weep to-night To honor Stuart, lying low. BY JOHN E. THOMPSON. WE could not pause while yet the noontide air Shook with the cannonade s incessant pealing, The funereal pageant fitly to prepare A nation s grief revealing. The smoke, above the glimmering woodland wide, That skirts our southward border in its beauty, Marked where our heroes stood and fought and died For love and faith and duty. And still, what time the doubtful strife went on, We might not find expression for our sorrow ; We could but lay our dear, dumb warrior down, And gird as for the morrow. One weary year agone, when came a lull, With victory in the conflict s stormy closes, When the glad Spring all flushed and beautiful, First mocked us with her roses GEN. J. E. B. STUAKT. 553 With dirge and bell and minute gun, we paid Some few poor rites an inexpressive token Of a great people s pain to JACKSON S shade, In agony unspoken. No wailing trumpet and no tolling bell, No cannon, save the battle s boom receding When STUART to the grave we bore, might tell, With hearts all crushed and bleeding. The crises suited not with pomp, and she Whose anguish bears the seal of consecration, Had wished his Christian obsequies could be Thus void of ostentation. Only the maidens came sweet flowers to twine Above his form so still, and cold, and painless, Whose deeds upon our brightest records shine, Whose life and sword were stainless. They well remembered how he loved to dash Into the fight, festooned from summer bowers ; .How like a fountain s spray his sabre flash Leaped from a mass of flowers. And so we carried to his place of rest, All that of our great Paladin was mortal : The cross, and not the sabre on his breast, That, opes the heavenly portal. No more of tribute might to us remain But there will come a time when Freedom s martyrs, A richer guerdon of renown shall gain, Than gleams in stars and garters. 554 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. I claim no prophet s vision, but I see Through coming years now near at hand, not dis tant My country rescued glorious and free, And strong, and self-existent. I hear from out that sunlit- land which lies Beyond these clouds that gather darkly o er us ; The happy sounds of industry arise In swelling, peaceful chorus. And mingling with these sounds, the glad acclaim Of millions undisturbed by war s afflictions, Crowning each martyr s never dying name With grateful benedictions. I see some future gardens of delight, Where flowers shall bloom and song birds sweetly warble, Art shall erect the statues of our knights, In living bronze and marble : And none of all that bright heroic throng, Shall wear to far off time a semblance grander Shall still be decked with fresher wreaths of song Than this beloved commander. The Spanish legend tells us of the Cid, That after death, he rode erect, sedately, Along his lines, even as in life he did, In presence yet more stately. THE SOLDIEE WHO EIED TO-DAY. 555 And thus our STUAET at this moment, seems To ride out of our dark and troubled story, Into the regions of romance and dreams A realm of light and glory And sometimes when the silver bugles blow, That ghostly form in battle reappearing, Shall lead his horsemen headlong on the foe, In victory careering ! ONLY an humble cart T hreading the careless crowd, And at its head, With solemn tread, An aged man of God. Only a coffin of pine, And a suit of Confederate grey, To shroud the form, All wasted and worn, Of the soldier who died to-day. Only a mound of earth, Heaped roughly upon the breast And a stake at the head Of the narrow bed Where the soldier is taking his rest 556 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Only the evening wind Sends forth a wailing moan, And a violet near, Drops a crystal tear On the grave so newly grown. Yet some one will watch and wail In a distant Southern home, Eager to meet The coming feet That will never, never come. Aye, watch till the eye grows dim, And the heart waxes faint with pain, Time will come and go In its ceaseless flow, But he will not come again. Unheeding your watch he sleeps, Unheeding the lapse of time ; And the grass will wave O er his lonely grave Ere the roses reach their prime. Not n the ranks he fell, Where the soldier is proud to die, Where the muskets flash, And the sabres clash, At the ringing battle-cry ; Alone on the fever couch, Where disease had laid him apart ; The icy breath Of relentless death Chilled the fountain of his heart JOHN PEGRAM. Yet a Nation of Southern hearts With grateful accord will say : " A Hero s renown, And a martyr s crown, For the soldier who died to-day. 7 MACON CONFEDEEATE. BY W. GORDON M CABE. 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 blind with tears, we 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 1 we never dreamed that death Would dare to touch him in his brave young years I * Major General, C. S. Army. Fell at the head of his Division, February, 6th, 1865. 558 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Ah ! dear browned face, so fearless and so bright I As kind to friend as thou wert stern to foe No more we ll see thee radiant in the fight, The eager eyes, the flush on cheek and brow 1 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 lias 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 your 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. JAMES W. BUKWELL. 559 AGED EIGHTEEN YEARS. IN MEMOEIAM. [The following sadly beautiful lines are the votive offering of a stricken mother s heart, over which has been soothingly shed, like gentle dew upon the hills of Hermon, the sublime grace of meek, Christian resignation. With them, it is requested that this illustra tive and explanatory sketch of the young hero, from the gifted pen of Mrs. Fanny Downing, be published. Editress. ] " When the spirit that animated the soldiers of the entire South was so glorious, that under its influence each one of them became a hero, it may seem useless to select one for particular consideration. Yet in the case of the gallant boy, who forms the subject of these lines, there are circumstances of such touching pathos, as to make it worthy of special mention. "The son of KEV. KOBEET and MRS. M. A. BURWELL, Principals of the Charlotte, North Carolina, Female Institute he presented from his earliest childhood that rare assemblage of high intellectual gifts, loveliness of character and remarkable personal beauty, which seems the peculiar portion of those who are only lent to earth, and then transplanted to a more congenial clime. " At the age of sixteen he passed from his collegiate studies to the service of his country. In that service he continued with untiring devotion serving in company with five brave brothers for over two years. In the last two years, one of these brothers has given his life a sacrifice to the Southern cause, and a third has come home to fight life s ]ast battle, deprived of the strength of a good right arm. " In the early morning of the 13th of October, 1864, while fighting in the battle of Cedar Run, James Burwell was kitted instantly. Sim ple seeming words, yet fraught with a weight of agony ? which will touch a responsive chord in the hearts of unnumbered Southern mothers, who have learned their true and bitter meaning. The portion of the battle in which young Burwell was engaged, took place in the immediate vicinity of the farm-house of Mr. Hatch ings, near Middletown, .Virginia ; and after it was over, Mrs. Ritch- 560 THE SOUTHERN AMABANTH. ings and her children walked over the scene of conflict in the hope of rendering some assistance. Attracted by the delicate beauty of the young soldier, and thrilled with pity at the frantic grief of his brothers who were hanging over him one of them wishing for "mother s sake," that " I could take his place ;" she singled him as the object of her special care. He was removed to the house, and so soon as the necessary arrangements could be made, was interred in the garden adjoining. From that day his grave was tended with a mother s care, and every act that a warm and generous heart could suggest, was performed in guarding the sacred spot, in honor of him who slept so softly there, and of the cause to which he had given his life. How many such graves rise through all the length and breadth of the dear South ! They are the only monuments she may claim. In the day that God makes up his jewels, he will visit them all!" jl > x x ; IT seems to me, though the sun shines on, His warmth and lustre are dimmed and gone ; For the light of my life-time, paled and fled, "When they told me my precious boy was dead I {< Dead !" My beautiful one, my own, Who, to my he^rt-strings so close had grown, That when he fell in the fearful fray, Part of my being was wrenched away I Was it for this, that I toiled so long Waiting and hoping, so brave and strong Patiently toiling from year to year Circling existence in one set sphere- Heedless of labor, and care, and pain Measuring my loss by my children s gain Folding them close in my sheltering arms, Praying " Our Father " In deathly harms, * Special contribution. A MOTHER S LAMENT FOB HER BOY. 561 Mine the sorrow theirs be the bliss Was it for this ? Was it all for this? Dead in the flower and flush of his youth ! Gone in his dutiful love and his truth ! His Country called at her frantic cry He sprang to her bleeding side to die I Truthful, and noble, and pure and good, Every drop of his young heart s blood, Oozing in death on her sacred sod, Pleaded that Country s Cause with God ! From the first hour that his baby eyes Smiled on my bosom in soft surprise Till Death darkened his youthful brow, He never caused me one pang, till now ! Oh ! if his last, low fleeting breath, Wafting swift through the gates of death, Had sighed in my ear with the tender strain : " Mother, I love you !" Methinks that my pain Might have been less ; for now when I yield To the mad thought ; " on the battle field In all its horrible carnage and rout, The life of my precious child went out " Can any solace a peace impart ? Is there a balm for my breaking heart ? Yes ; oh, my God ! though thy billows roll Bitter and deep o er my shrinking soul, Every wave of the awful sea Washes me nearer to Heaven and thee ! Father, Almighty ! thy will be done I Even my cherished, idolized son 562 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Unto THY summons I can resign, Strengthened and stayed by Thy grace divine I Far in his lonely grave he lies, Under the arch of Virginia s skies, Stretched like a child on his nurse s breast, Quietly sleeping in peaceful rest. Stranger hands dug his narrow cell, But tender tears on his coffin fell ; And kindly hearts guard his patriot dust, . Keeping his grave as a " sacred trust :" Oh ! if his mother s fervent prayer Compasses blessings rich and rare, Heaven s best gifts on their lives will be shed For their loving care of my precious dead ! Shall I remove from their tenderness Their valued charge that the wretchedness Of my stricken spirit may seem less deep To see his grave, and over it weep ? For kindest friends still, your vigil keep Over my child in his dreamless sleep : Ne er shall his tomb, from your charge depart For his real grave is his MOTHER S HEART ! 11$ fpfto to ifce BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH, M. D. "WE remember at the Wilderness a gallant Mississippian had fallen, and at night, just before burying him, there came a letter from her he loved best. One of the group around his body a minister whose tenderness was womanly, broke the silent tearful ness with which he saw the dead letter ; he took it and laid it upon THE LETTER TO THE DEAD. 563 the breast of him whose heroic heart was still : Bury it with him. He will see it when he wakes. It was the sublimest sentence of his funeral service." N. 0. Picayune. COMES the letter from a mother? Are a sister s longings there ? Or the fondness of another, Loved and loving, young and fair ? Seek not now to know the writer, Seek not whence or why it came ; As he died, his dimmed eyes saw her ; As he died he breathed her name. It has come o er hills and valleys, Crossed o er rivers, passed o er lakes : " Bury it upon his bosom, He will see it when he wakes." Bury the dead with the letter unread, There to remain, Till the soldier awakes from his slumber, To join in the battle again. Ah ! but never more to battle He will march by beat of drum ; Nevermore when fight is over Sigh for gentle peace to come ; Nevermore to roll-call answer. Nevermore will pace his round, Keeping watch o er sleeping comrades Strewn upon the chilly ground ; Nevermore the light words utter While his heart with sadness aches ; " Bury it upon his bosom, He will see it when he wakes." 564 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Bury it deep with the soldier to sleep : There let it lie, While the green grass grows o er the sleeper,, And the world goes hurrying by. She who lingered as she wrote it O er each tender word she penned, She perchance will find her sorrow "With some later lover end. But for him those words of loving May survive when time is o er, And, though she forget her fondness ? Greet him on the further shore, Cross his arms and close his eyelids, Tis his slumber that he takes ; " Bury it upon his bosom, He will see it when he wakes." Lay him to rest with the scroll on his breasty There, in the tomb, Till the startled dead shall awaken At the terrible day of doom. NORTHERN MONTHLY, Newark, N. J. GEORGE WYTHE RANDOLPH. 565 BY JOHN B. THOMPSON. I. AND is he dead, whom we have loved so well The sailor, soldier, scholar, statesman, dead ! And it remains that we shall rightly tell His virtues, and the crowning grace that shed A tender radiance over all his story A radiance deepening at the end to glory. And trailing light along the darksome way By which he passed to everlasting day. And he is gone, we shall not see him more, Nor hear him yet in that familiar strain, Wherewith he held ns captive heart and brain, Of gentler fancies and of wisest lore : We still sit listening, though the voice is hushed, .Nor ignorantly hold our loss less great, That his is a translation to the skies, From all the thickening sorrows of the state A land impoverished and a people crushed That having borne the cross, he gains the prize 1 Of little faith we are, that we should weep When God the Father calls his children hence With love unanswered by our mortal sense For so He giveth his beloved sleep. II. Our friend was of a lofty house and line, And owned, as heritage, an honored name ; 566 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And with it, goodlier legacy than this, The love of all things lovely, noble, true r "Wisdom with goodness, did in him combine^ Yet such a modesty, most rare, w as his ; And so apart he lived from noisy fame, And held so cheaply, he to duty vowed As ever only may the wise and few, The plauditory clamor of the crowd ; Content to do the task, to bear the burden, Careless to win the empty, earthly guerdon, His greatness might have blossomed all unseen,. Unrecognized, save in the narrow view Of home, had not the tumult of the time, And sore calamity of common weal, Called him to action on a stage sublime, And to his life affixed the enduring seal : But centered in the full, intensest light That fiercest blaze of war across the land, Wherein your little nature looked so mean Your party hero but a paltry thing. He rose full statured to that kingly height That we, who had not known him for a king, But deemed him great, and worthy of command^,. Kejoiced nor marvelled at his renown ; Till wasted with his work he laid it down. Worn out with petty rivalries and strife, And, bending mostly neath the country s care, Within the inner temple of his life Withdrew himself as to a house of prayer, Arid walked therein serenely to the close, Through ever-present suffering, yet beguiled By tenderest sympathy and fondest looks By sweet idolatry of art and books, GEORGE WYTHE RANDOLPH. 567 And nature in far lands beyond the sea, And b j the love of hers who loved him best ; Thus gently solaced, chastened, reconciled, In meek submission to the chastening rod, But ever yearning for diviner rest, Nearer he drew unto the peace of God Which passeth understanding, richly blest With earnest of an infinite repose, When death at last should kindly set him free. Ill Virginia mourns him, and with happier fates, Warriors and statesmen might have borne his pall ; And had his been a public funeral, Lamented- by a league of sorrowing States, With eulogy and anthem, trumpet s wail, And pealing guns upon the evening breeze, And flags had drooped half-mast in distant seas, Where he, the sailor boy, had braved the gale ; And we, when time all jealousies had stilled, Had placed his marble image in a niche Of that majestic fane, with sculptures rich, And soaring dome, that we shall never build ; But now his image in our hearts is shrined, And what is mortal of the man consigned, In all the sanctity of private grief, To mother earth, amid ancestral tombs, Within those hallowed precincts which contain The dust of Monticello s mighty dead ; There would I stray, alone with reverent tread, As o er the mountain, spring her joyous reign Eeviews with all her beauteous tints and blooms, 568 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And April s whisper stirs the tender leaf There, softly stray as in some minster dim, "Where saints and martyrs slept beneath the nave, To call up gentlest memories of him, And lay the earliest violets on his grave. BY PAUL H. HAYNE. I AM sitting alone and weary, By the hearth in my darkened room, And the low wind s miserere, Makes sadder the midnight gloom. Methinks that the dead are around me ! I thrill while the phantoms moan, For the spell of a dream hath bound me, As I muse by my hearth alone. Tis a vision of ghastly faces, All pallid and worn with pain. Where the splendor of manhood s graces Gives place to a gory stain. In a wild and weird procession They sweep by my startled eyes, And stern with their Fate s fruition, Seem melting in blood-red skies. Have they come from the shores supernal ; Have they passed from the spirit s goal, Keath the veil of the life eternal, To dawn on mv shrinking soul ? OUR MARTYES. 569 Have they turned from the choiring Angels, Aghast at the woe and death, That War with his dark Evangels Hath wrought in the loved of earth ? Vain dreams ! from the far off mountains They lie where the dew mists weep, And the murmur of mournful fountains Breathes over their painless sleep ; On the breast of the lonely meadows Safe, safe, from the despot s will, They rest in the star-lit shadows, And their brows are white and still. Alas ! for the martyred heroes, Cut down in their golden prime, In a strife with the brutal Neroes Who blacken the front of Time ! For them is the voice of wailing And the sweet blush-rose departs. Prom the cheek of the maiden paling O er the wreck of their broken hearta And alas ! for the vanished glory Of a thousand household spells ! And alas ! for the tearful story Of the spirit s fond farewells ! By the flood, on the field, in the forest, Our bravest have yielded their breath, But the shafts that have smitten the sorest, Were launched by a viewless Death. Oh, Thou ! that hast charms of healing Descend on a widowed land, 570 THE SOUTHERN AMAKANTH. And bind o er the wounds of feeling The balms of Thy mystic hand ! Till the hearts that lament and languish, Kenewed by the touch divine, From the depths of a mortal anguish Shall rise to the Calm of Thine I SOUTHERN ILLUSTRATED NEWS. BY M. A. JE1STN1NGS, ALABAMA. " Another star sliines now on high." ANOTHEK ray of light hath fled, another Southern brave Hath fallen in his country s cause, and found a lau reled grave Hath fallen, but his deathless name shall live when stars have set, For noble Cleburne, thou art one, this world will ne er forget. Tis true thy warm heart beats no more, that on thy no ble head Azreal placed his icy hand, and thou art with the dead ! The glancing of thine eyes are dim, no more will they be bright Until they ope in Paradise, with clearer, heavenlier light. No battle news disturbs thy rest, upon the sun bright shore, CLEBUENE. 571 No clarion voice awakens thee, on earth to wrestle more, No tramping steed, no wary foe bids thee awake, arise, For thou art in the angel world, beyond the starry skies. Brave Cleburne, dream in thy lowly bed, with pulse less deadened heart ; Calm, calm and sweet, warrior rest! thou well hast borne thy part, And now a glory-wreath for thee, the angels singing- twine, A glory-wreath, not of the earth, but made by hands divine. A long farewell ! we give thee up with all thy bright renown ; A chief f ain here on earth is lost, in heaven an angel found. Above thy grave a wail is heard a nation mourns her dead ; . A nobler for the South ne er died a braver never bled! A last farewell ! how can we speak that bitter word " FAKE WELL !" The anguish of our bleeding hearts vain words may never tell. Sleep on, sleep on, to God we give our chieftain in his might ; And weeping feel he lives on high, where comes no sorrow s night 572 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY COL. HAWKINS, C. S. A. LINES written on the wish expressed by him, that his body should not be carried to the Shenandoah Valley until his mother could write upon his tomb, "He died in defence of his country." MAKE, not my grave in the valley yet, Neath the sod of the alien let it be, Till my mother can write with tears of pride, On my tomb these simple words, "He died, Dear land, defending thee !" Not there where the blackened homesteads are, And the tokens of deathless wrong. Not the place where a pall is upon the land, All scourged by sword and scarred by brand, And hushed is every song. Not there where the church-yard turf is torn, By the hoof of a vile and ruthless foe, Shall his grave be made ; for a Northman s hate The sacred spot would desecrate, A fiendish wrath to show. In days of Eome as dangers fled, When friendly Curtis leaped to serve, The eager votaries sought to share, And blessed with garlands rich and rare The hero s honored grave ! But he more grand and noble still, Uncheered by loud acclaim, SONNET. 57$ In the might of his undaunted soul Drank freely sorrows keenest dole, And faced the brink of shame. Yet ere he plunged the angels swift Along their earthly path way trod, They smote away the bitter cup And bore the star-crowned martyr up, On their pinions back to God. And nature mourns that gallant heart. For there upon his Northern tomb, As semblances of nature s love The flowers of spring shall wave above His ashes in their bloom. ON THE PRESENT CONDITION OF THE SOUTH. BY PAUL H. HAYNE. SHE lies before thee a pale, pulseless Land ; No more her great eyes burn with hopeful lights ; About her worn and helmless droop her Knights, A shattered weapon in each dead right hand : The trumpets that aroused that warrior band To pluck fresh honor from an hundred fights, Seem distant now as echoes up the heights Of fabulous Legend borne to realms unscanned ; Yet fearest thou this Queen Titan from her rest 574 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. May start whilst thou art slumbering ? sound again Her ringing battle-cry o er mount and plain, With Conquest blazing on her fiery crest ? Aye ! SUCH thy dread ! hence to all Earth s disdain, Thy ruthless sword still gores her prostrate breast ! OF SMITH CALVERT PLATTE COUNTY, MISSOURI. BY VIRGINIA. MADISON. (MISS S. A. BEOCK.) SPRING breezes were fanning the wild western prairies, And from deep earthy beds were awaking the flowers ; Verdant meadows were gay with the buttercup s blos soms, And the golden-hued dandelions, marking the hours. The hyacinth s bells with rich perfume was laden, And the snow-drop was bowed with the dew of the night ; The mild blue-eyed violet peeped out mid its green leaves, And soft blushing roses were ensheathed from the sight. Nature s censer was teeming with odors commingled, Of the bright flowery treasures of garden and field, Laughing streams prattled on in a gay, joyous measure, And mirrored the beauties that winter concealed. IN MEMOKY. 575 Nature s grand leafy temple with music was choral, Rare melodies were trilled from tree-top and bough ; In the dark, grey old forests, bright songsters were sporting, And echoes, like spirits sighed softly and low. In the emigrant s cot all was peaceful and happy, His gun on the antlers hung over the door ; When at noontide he rests from his chase -in the wood land, And soft waving shadows danced over the floor. From his window he gazed and he saw the corn grow ing, And the wheat on his hill-sides, looked tender and green ; His wants they were simple contentment smiled on him, His board it was frugal but there, plenty was seen. Then came a stern mandate, to rouse him from dream ing, And visions of daring his strong spirit stirred ; " To arms ! for the foemen are rising around you, To arms !" was the cry, that in wonder he heard. He was old, but he looked on the bright boy beside him, And turned to the mother she d a part in the cup, " My husband, why doubt me," she answered un trem bling " For our country if needful, our boy, we ll give up !" " Thy wife is no coward, nor thy mother, my darling, In thy veins runs a rich stream, from grandsire and son. 576 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Go ! I would not detain thee, tho thy life be the for feit, Do thy duty I God help thee ! till our Cause it is won." His banjo he strung and as the bright sun was setting, The glad strains of Dixie stole over the strings , And the young soldier s pulses with ardor beat wildly r As the courser s that over the grand prairie springs Only once did he meet them, the foeman he sought for, Once only when there burst forth his heart cheering cry; "Hurrah; they are vanquished! oh see them retreat ing, Hurrah !" rang his glad shout, " how wildly they fly!" The battle was over but a foeman more vengeful, Tracked the young soldier s march, as he toiled on his way ; In his veins he infused a dread subtle poison, And scorching to madness, all prostrate he lay. Far away from the friends that cherished him fondly, To his fever racked fancy, sweet visions would come ; "When his tongue could not utter his heart s dearest wishes, His hand pointed backward, and his eye " Take me home !" " Oh, there let me lie where the rivulet sparkling ; In its wild, merry music my spirit may hear ; Where the home-forest s requiem can wail o er my dreaming Let me lie mid the scenes, that my soul holds so- dear." THE DYING SOLLIEK. 577 Alas ! far from home, from friends and from kindred, The young soldier perished, and sleeps his last sleep ; Alone, and forgotten ? No ; a cordon of angels Watch and guard o er his slumbers will evermore keep. Ne er again shall the war-bugle s echoes arouse him, Never more his heart thrill with rapture or pain ; His dreams are unbroken "He has fought his last battle, No sound can awake him to glory again." The emigrant s cottage is quiet and lonely, The young soldier s banjo hangs mute on the wall ; His laugh no more lightens the eventide circle, Nor his footsteps bring joy to a fond mother s call. His father is bowed and his head is more hoary, A sigh rends his breast, he thinks of him, gone ! And a tear sometimes glistens upon his grey eyelids, But his heart whispers, " Father, thy great will be done !" METBOPOUTAN KECOED. Affectionately inscribed to Lizzie A. Christie. BY MATILDA EDWABDS, YEKFINIA. [CoL Christie, of North Carolina, fell mortally wounded at the battle of Gettysburg, while gallantly leading his men against the enemy s breastworks. He was taken to Winchester, where he was nursed tenderly until his death. He longed to see his young wife, OP THE 578 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. his darling Lizzie, but when she reached Winchester he was dead. His last words were, " Kiss me for Lizzie." Extract of a tetter.} " The bravest are the truest, The loving are the daring." I AM dying is she coming ? throw the window open wide, Is she coming? Oh! I love her more than all the world beside In her young and tender beauty, must, oh ! must she feel this loss ? Saviour, hear my poor petition, teach her how to bear this cross. Help her to be calm and patient when I moulder in the dust, Let her say and feel, my Father, that thy ways are true and just. Is she coming ? Go and listen I would see her face once more ; I would hear her speaking to me ere life s fevered dream is o er ; I would fold her to my bosom, look into her soft bright I would tell her how I love her, kiss her once before I die. Is she coming? Oh! tis evening, and my darling comes not still. Lift the curtain it grows darker it is sunset on the hill. All the evening dews are falling I am cold the light is gone, THE DYING SOLDEEK. 579 Is she coming ? Softly, softly comes death s silent foot steps on ; I am going come and kiss me kiss me for my darling wife; Take for her my parting blessing take the last fond kiss of life. Tell her I will wait to greet her where the good and lovely are, In that home untouched by sorrow, tell her she must meet me there. Is she coming ? Lift the curtain let me see the fall ing light, Oh ! I want to live to see her, surely she will come to night ; Surely ere the daylight dieth, I will fold her to my breast ; With her head upon my bosom, calmly I could sink to rest; It is hard to die without her ; look, I think she s com ing now ; I can almost feel her kisses on my faded cheek and brow; I can almost hear her whisper, feel her breath upon my cheek Hark ! I hear the front door open ; is she coming ? did she speak? No. "W ell drop the curtain softly I will see her face no more, 580 THE SOUTHEKN AMABANTH. Till I see it smiling on me on the bright and better shore. Tell her she must come and meet me in that Eden land of light ; Tell her I ll be waiting for her where there is no death y no night ; Tell her that I called her darling, blessed her with m j dying breath ; Come and kiss me for my Lizzie tell her love out- liveth death. RICHMOND, March 23. BY ELEANOE F AIRMAN. (MISS MAKY SHEFFEY, VIKGINIA.) No roll of drums, no squadron s tread, Within this realm of death Is heard. The wild and warlike note No more will swell the bugle s throat, Hushed is its clarion breath. Its echoes e en, once loud and shrill, Have faintly died upon the hill, Above our dead. The leaves drift rustling o er each mound Where now the heroes rest ; And winds unchained, their dirges chaunt Where erst we saw the banners flaunt ; The glow of battle s crest. But ne er again will Autumn s sigh Arouse the braves who stirless lie In Southern ground. THE CONFEDEKATE DEAD. 581 The morn and noon of life have fled, And left the starless night. Our sunlit skies have sunless grown, And moons wax faint, where once they shone With spells of weird light. The darkness fell when Stonewall slept, When Kachel bowed and wailing wept To call him dead. O, Death 1 His wine of life was red. And thou wast crimsoned o er, Ere it had swelled above the brink Of his bright well of joy. Why drink When drunk with human gore ? The precious boon we craved ; but thou Hast stamped thy signet on his brow, And he is dead. The cypress, too, o er Bartow waves, And Bee sleeps close beside. But Southrons o er their slumbers mourn, For ah ! they know two souls were borne Out with the ebbing tide That left two hearts a patriot s rest, And on Manassas bloodstained breast Two priceless graves. Ah ! ne er again will Ashbtfs blade Flash in the noonday sun. With /Stuart s now, tis dim with rust, And on the hilt is gathered dust That tells its work is done. 582 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. The sword no more will leave its sheatlt,, But ne er the chieftain s laurel wreath Shall wilt, or fade. On Shiloh s plains, where Johnston fell^ The life-tides riot ran. Weep brave Sydney s life is o er, Weep for he will rise no more To lead the battle van. Those red streams o er his death-couch rolled^,, Though when he fell we sadly tolled No funeral bell. Ehodes and Gordon ! O er their graves Our tears must silent fall ; Their names with Garland s are entwined, But low their forms with Gregg s we find, Enfolded in death s pall. Floyd and Morgan, Jones and Marr Ah, well we know that many a star Sunk with our braves ! The privates of the South ! Our dead Who left no name or story, Save that upon th historic page, Of braver deeds than Grecian sage E er dreamed, or Sparta s glory, They fell beneath the foeman s steel, And crushed and mourning now we kneel: Where they have bled. Their blood was poured upon the land A nation s holocaust ! On Freedom s altars, lo ! the stain I But ah ! the sacrifice was vain THE CONFEDERATE DEAD. 583 Our cause and they are lost ! In vain we mourn the gallant dead ; In vain the tears that dew each bed Of this brave band. And they, the early lost ! The dead With Wise and Hampton lying. War s empty chalice fell away When they were laid low on the clay, Stricken, bleeding, dying. Youth still made glorious each fair brow ; But, Southrons, mourn, for they are now Your priceless dead. Our dead ! Our gems ! The Kohinoors That set the Southern crown. E en through the sod their glories flash ; Though bloodstained from the battle s crash, We laid them sadly down. We may not weep in wild despair, Though some lie casketless and bare On Northern moors. None are unnumbered or unknown We count them o er and o er As captives count the gleams of light That steal upon their dungeon s night To star the prison floor. Each tomb is still a people s trust Forgotten is no Southern dust, All is our own. MOUNTAIN HOME, SOTJTHWESTEBN VIRGINIA. 584 THE SOUTHERN AMABANTH. tlw ti 01 (At tlie Montgomery White Sulplmr Springs in Virginia, there was, during the war, a Confederate Hospital, and in the cemetery there, a number of our dead we buried. Eecently the ladies of Montgomery County held a public celebration on the spot, and at their invitation, the following beautiful poem, composed for, and commemorative of the occasion, was read by a gentleman of that county. ) As o er the past, the widowed mother weeps, And at the desolate hearthstone keeps Her lonely vigils ; when December s Breath lights up the dying embers, Who is it then, most dearly she remembers, As back among the graves, through all her grief, The spirit wanders, seeking some relief? Is it the stout and buoyant hearted boy, "Who grasped Life s flashing blade with eager joy, And onward pressed with right good will, And on, and upward sped, until He flung his banner out on some proud hill I Does he come back in all his buried splendor, To fill her heart with thoughts most dearly tender ? Or rather he the feeble one who burned To mount as high, and for the struggle yearned, But faint and weak, not all her care Could keep that eager spirit there, That mounted far beyond the reach of prayer 1 Does he not rather come through all those years, To loose the sacred fountain of her tears ? PATEIOT HEEO IN THE SIGHT OF GOD. 585 Tis thus Virginia, at her spoiled hearth Eemernbers these, with all her buried worth ; Forbidden yet, by Power s lust, To recognize their sacred dust, Devoted daughters have assumed the trust, Until the grand old mother, freed of bonds, Shall come to write her love in stone or bronze. Then here to-day, in view of all that band Of Southern martyrs, in the Spirit land, Those starry clusters we may see Now circling o er us, born to be A shining system round the sun-like Lee ; We come to bow before these nameless ones, Who died so well, tho far from hostile guns. Ah yes ! tis these who would have died for Eight, As grandly as the foremost in the fight, But fainted by the way. Tis these Who fought that other king, Disease, We come to honor on our bended knees, With pure, and loving women standing near To bless each lowly one, with many a tear. And while they weep among these lonely graves We dare proclaim them loyal men not slaves, Nor power, nor force, nor human laws Can bind our people with a clause That "traitors " make of martyrs in our cause. For though they sleep beneath a nameless sod, They re Patriot heroes in the sight of God 1 586 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. tt Wfrtwm 0! Hwtt WmmA THE POET LAUREATE OF SOUTH CAROLINA. BY SALLIE A. BKOCK. " The good die first, But they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket." His harp is mute ! And o er the fair and sunlit skies, Which saw his splendid genius comet-like arise And wake of golden poesy, the fruit O er every hill and dale, On every mount and vale, On rock and stream and wood, On mart and bay and flood, Is cast a black and sombre pall ! Unstrung, and by the wall It stands ! The master hands Which woke to life its chords divine, Are cold and still ! And mine A tribute fain would pay . To the unconscious clay ; The spirit, rather That the grim decay nor envious Death can gather, But which must live while Time shall roll along In pulsing echoes of undying song ! IN THE MEMORY OF HENRY TIMROD. 587 Yes, Timrod, while an amaranthine wreath I twine, And many a precious blossom cull from thine, That thou for heads of others in a chaplet wove, "While thy great heart and spirit strove In fleshly bonds of brotherhood, And in the dignity of manhood stood A lighthouse and a landmark on the shores of Time. With ringers pointing to that heavenly clime, Where sin nor death is known Not on thine own, My garland would I fling Though woven of immortelles gemmed with tears,, The diamond dew of sorrow, hopes and tears, The precious drops that anguish bids to start. All welling from the fountains of the heart Not on thy head for richest crowns so meet, But humbly at thy feet My offering I would lay, And mournful sit and sing, And wonder, weep and pray ! Weep ! Yea, all must weep Who knew thy virtues, ere the dreamless sleep Of Death enchained thee I Weep, as for a star Fled from the heavens to unknown regions, far ! The zephyr sighs, and moans the morning gale ; On every Southern breeze is heard a low, sad waiL The tall palmetto bows its crested head In solemn reverence o er the gifted dead, And all the leaves that in the forests wave Will hold a weeping dew-drop for the poet s grave. Farewell awhile ! No more thy beaming smile 588 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Shall light on those who loved thee here, But there, up there in the Eternal sphere, Thy harp will wake again To joy s glad, thrilling strain, To chords of glory which shall never cease, In hallelujahs loud unto the "Prince of Peace." The " CHEISTMAS " anthem which to earth was given, Will lingering echo through the courts of heaven ! METBOPOLITAN KECOED, New York, Oct. 13, 1867. BY HENKT TIMKOD. at the Memorial Celebration in Charleston, South Carolina, May, 1866. SLEEP sweetly in your humble graves Sleep, martyrs in a fallen cause, Though yet no marble column craves The pilgrim here to pause. In seeds of laurels in the earth, The blossom of your fame is blown ; And, somewhere waiting for its birth The shaft is in the stone. Meanwhile, behold the tardy years, Which keep in trust your sordid tomb Behold your sisters bring their tears, And these memorial blooms. CEDAEVILLE. 580 Small tributes ! but your shades will smile More proudly on those wreaths to-day, Than when some cannon moulded pile Shall overlook this bay. Stoop, angels, hither from the skies I There is no holier spot of ground, Than where defeated valor lies, By mourning beauty crowned, NEW YOKE NEWS. BY MRS. JULIETTE T. BURTON, VIRGINIA. How sad is the face of my childhood s home ! How gloomy the shades that at evening come ! How solemn the echoes that waken its halls, How mournfully murmur the winds round its walls I The harsh hand of Time has not altered it so. Alas ! tis the track of an army is there, The grim train of war to its bowers brought woe, And darkened and scarred all its features so fair. Thoughts crowd on my brain and encumber my heart Of this early loved spot. The fresh breezes that swept O er its bright hills and tossed the green branches apart Of its locusts and pines, seemed to me to be played By glad spirits in the air, who for my delight kept Weird music afloat where their fairy wings strayed 590 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Its meadows and hillocks, the lanes and the path To the " Barn," and the " Run " (which so often in wrath Broke its bounds,) were far dearer than rubies or gold, Or all that the genius of wealth could unfold. There dwelt the dear heart from which virtue s rich spring, Drew kindness and love for each being and thing ; There beamed the glad smile and there glistened the eye, That told to my heart that a heaven was nigh. Ah ! gen rous to strangers and kind to the poor, Were the dear ones that gathered within that old door. But no voice is there now, that then gladened its halls, Nor will ever be heard in its gloom stricken glades ; The moon s rays fall cold on its ruin- wrapped walls, And the winds shriek sad requiems through its lone shades ; And the sunlight that once made its bowers so bright Seems faded to beams that paint sorrow and blight. E en the chirp of the brown wren that builds on the eaves, Seems so laden with grief and lament for the past, That the ear turns for change to the rustle of the leaves, Or the woe-breathing wail of the murmuring blast That sobs through the willow ; whose age stricken head Bows over the spot, where lie buried my dead. METROPOUTAN RECORD. LINES. 591 Respectfully inscribed to the Ladies Memorial Association of Frederick- burg, Virginia. BY MOINA. (EEV. ABEAM J. EYAN.) Author of the " Conquered Banner." GATHER the sacred dust, Of the warriors tried and true, Who bore the flag of our nation s trust, And fell in a cause as great as just, And died for me and you. Wherever the brave have died, They should not rest apart ; Living, they struggled side by side Why should the hand of death divide A single heart from heart. Gather them each and all From the Private to the Chief, Came they from cabin or lordly hall, Over their dust let the fresh tears fall Of a nation s holy grief. No matter whence they came, Dear is their lifeless clay, Whether unknown or known to fame, Their cause and country were the same, They died and they wore the GREY, 592 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Grather the corpses strewn O er many a battle plain From many a grave that lies so lone, "Without a name, without a stone, Gather the Southern slain. And the dead shall meet the dead, While the living o er them weep ; For the men whom Lee and Stonewall led, And the hearts that once together bled, Should now together sleep. NEW YOEK FBEEMAN S JOUKNAL, Dec. 3d, 1866. OF THE LAMENTED GOV. HENRY WATKINS ALLEN, /nscn &ed to the Noble Women of Louisiana. BY COL. A. M. HOBBY. As sinks the sun along the Arctic skies, And his last ray in purple twilight dies, A silence deepens o er the lonely soul Of those dark dwellers round the icy pole ; Eyes brim with tears, the heart with sorrow thrills, As night descends upon their frozen hills, So wept and felt we when the saddened breeze Sighed from the Exile s home beyond the seas, And murmuring whispered to his native shore That her bright sun had set to rise no more. HENRY WATERS ALLEN. 593 "Why weeps that maiden, why in gloom she roves ? Nor heeds the fragrance of her orange groves ? "Why rests a sadness on that iron brow ? A tear that eye has never known till now ? "Why stops the child at play, three Aprils old, And earth and air a solemn stillness hold ? And why does grief extend its darkened pall And universal sorrow sadden all ? What ! Weep not for him ! whose deeds sublime Are rolled with grand music on the breeze of time A sun in Glory s firmament hath set, But in its dying rays we linger yet (That splendid sun that lit the Southern sky, Warmed every heart and kindled every eye ? No spot appeared upon its golden zone, No borrowed light its radiance all its own : Spread to the distant worlds its piercing beam, Or touched the modest violet on the stream ; Kissed every tear-drop from the tender flower, That bent its leaves beneath the storm s rude power ; Unclasped the ice-bands from the snowy hills, Called the hushed music from their voiceless rills, Awak d the spring-buds from their sleep of death, To breathe the fragrance of their spicy breath ; To paint the cheerless fields and faded bowers, In all the loveliness of summer hours.) Who would not feel when such a sun had set, The deepest sorrows of a long regret. Oh, ALLEN ! If within your lonely grave Where summer s tropic blooms forever wave The sounds of southern woe, that now we hear, Could pierce its portals to thy spirit ear, 594 THE SOUTHEKN AMARANTH. In one broad, deep Confederate voice twould rise, And half repay thee for thy sacrifice. If solemn grief be ours, how doubly great Thy grief shall be, our mourning sister State ; He was thy son, whose purity and fame Grave splendid lustre to your own bright name, But glorious deeds like his, not thine alone, Fame proudly spreads them with her trumpet tone, Till every pulse was fired, and heart was stirred, When ALLEN S great and glorious name was heard. Oh ! for some mighty hand that would aspire To sweep the golden chords of Southern Lyre ; To breathe her own great names in martial song, And point the brave and true in Fame s proud throng. Oh, who shall estimate the greatness lost, Or tell the virtues that adorned him most : The civic chieftain of a ruined State Once proudly prosperous, and truly great Now echoed but to hostile armies tread, A boundless waste where desolation spread One cheerless shadow o er the land, and there Starvation s cries were mingled with despair. The trembling ship, that fiercely storms assail And, helpless, staggers to the rushing gale, Tarns boldly to the waves, that would o erwhelm, When the undaunted pilot takes the helm. So, with tremendous might this master hand Stayed dread destruction s march upon the land, Touched the State corpse of credit, and it rose In sinewed strength, a giant on his foes The barren fields again were decked in bloom, The anvil echoed to the whirring loom ; HENRY WATKINS ALLEN. 595 His sails of commerce whitened in the breeze Despite the watchful sentries of the seas. Beturned through dangers with their smiling store, To clothe the naked and to feed the poor ; And grateful tears in sorrowing eyes were born, As golden plenty filled her crescent horn. When hearts grew faint in danger s darkest hour, A new demand was made on ALLEN S power. His wondrous eloquence was deeply breathed, And Hope, with confidence her brow en wreathed ; He swept with mighty hand on passion s lyre, His words were edged with patriotic fire ; Though sunk in cowardice, or ribbed in steel, No heart but answered to his great appeal ; His willing ear heard tales of deep distress, His ready hand gave to the wronged redress. True to the last did all that man could dare, To shield the helpless was his latest care ! True to the last from heaven s meridian height Saw Glory s Southern Sun sink down in night ! True to the last as sorrow s tear-drop fell, To broken hearts he bade a last farewell ! True to the last he saw the last act close, And sought in foreign lands a long repose. In foreign land that lonely exile sleeps No eye of love its faithful vigil keeps. By strangers hands alone his eyes were closed, By strangers hands his mangled limbs composed, By strangers hands his shroud of martial gray * * The remains of Gov. Allen, at his own request, were buried in 4he full suit of a Confederate Brigadier General. 596 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. That shone resplendent in the Southern fray Was wrapped, oh ! warmly o er his noble breast ; Within its folds more calmly will he rest Meet type, to clothe in gray, his manly form, Alike undaunted they had met the storm. Alike their stainless purity had kept, Alike will be remembered, loved and wept, Alike in tears and silence laid away, Alike immortal in their mouldering clay. But noble Louisiana, on thy breast Thy hero s ashes shall at last find rest ; Thy hands in love are reached beyond the wave, That thy proud city shall contain his grave. Oh ! let thy noble daughter s tender care . A fitting burial for their chief prepare, And bear him lovingly with pensive tread To the dim city of the silent dead, Where vines shall clasp and fragrant flowers bloom,, In sweet profusion o er great ALLEN S tomb ; While raised on high, the marble pyramid Shall tell, beneath the hero s dust is hid, And on its polished surface richly spread These god-like virtues of the noble dead : Oh ! Death, within thy walls of rest, Keceive this great and noble guest ! By broken hearts was ne er conveyed, To hands of thine, a nobler shade, Affection s hands have reared this trust, To guard a hero s sacred dust Memorial of as pure a man LITTLE G1FFEN. 597 As blessed the earth since time began. His laurels bright, the honors claim Of Christian, statesman, warrior s name In halls of wisdom wisely great, A master in the grave debate ; In battle field the first to lead A tower of strength in day of need. On him did justice never frown, His brow wore duty s iron crown, And Honor gave him, from his birth, A mountain majesty of worth ; While mercy smiles, recounting o er His boundless blessings to the poor. Sleep, Hero, sleep ! rest, Patriot, rest 1 Among the hearts that loved thee best. Xong as the sun on high shall burn We ll bend with reverence o er thy urr And tears of love, till Time s last day, Shall consecrate thy hallowed clay I GALVESTON, TEXAS, June 5th, 1866. BY F. O. TICKNOR, M. D. OUT of the focal and foremost fire, Out of the hospital walls as dire ; .Smitten of grape shot and gangrene, (Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen :) Spectre, such as you seldom see Jjittle Gilfen of Tennessee ! 598 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. " Take him and welcome !" the surgeons said " Much your Doctor can help the dead 1" And so we took him and brought him where The balm was sweet on the summer air ; And we laid him down on a wholesome bed Utter Lazarus, heel to head ! Weary War with the bated breath, Skeleton boy against skeleton Death. Months of torture, how many such ! Weary weeks of the stick and crutch 1 Still a glint in the steel blue eye Spoke of the spirit that wouldn t die, And didn t ! nay, more ! in death s despite The crippled skeleton learned to write I " Dear mother" at first, of course ; and then, " Dear Captain" inquiring about the " men. Jr Captain s answer " Of eighty and five, Giifen and I are left alive I" " Johnston s pressed at the front, they say 1" Little Giffen was up and away. A tear, his first, as he bade good bye, Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye ; " III write, if spared;" there was news of a fight,. But none of Giifen ! he did not write I I sometimes fancy that when I m king, And my gallant courtiers form a ring, All so thoughtless of power and pel And each so loyal to all but self, I d give the best on his bended knee, Yea, barter the whole for the Loyalty Of little Giffen of Tennessee ! THE LAND WE LOVE. LINES. 599 TO GENERAL S. B. BUCKLER. BY EOSAEITA. WE meet to-night In a gorgeous light, But our hearts are full of sorrow We gather now With a cloudless brow And will smile again to-morrow. Bat the barbed dart Is in our heart, And there it rankles ever ; When we think of our brave In a distant grave And know they are gone forever 1 For us they fell ; Let history tell In its page of crimson story, How they faced the tide And bravely died On fields so dread and gory. They may crush us low, Neath the iron bow * The following poems were transmitted through the Bazaar Post Office, New Orleans, February 23rd, 1867. 600 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. That may ruin our Southern land, But the right to mourn Is from God alone, And we mourn our broken land. S. B. BTJCKNEB. Neath the gorgeous light, That beams brightly to-night, We dare not even dream of our sorrow ; And the chivalrous dead, From their chill, gory bed, May not claim our thoughts on the morrow. And no tears may now fall On the funeral pall Over which our vigils we re keeping ; No flowers ever bloom O er the cold, silent tomb, Where our dead are so peacefully sleeping. And the funeral bell, May never more tell The sad throes of the heart that is breaking ; Nor the mother may mourn Her brave boy lately borne In silence, to wait the last waking. SOMEBODY S DARLING. 601 And the maiden must still The emotions that thrill Through her soul, in agony weeping ; Though her heart may be crushed, Yet her sobs must be hushed, O er the grave where her lover is sleeping. And no tablets may tell Where the young hero fell, Nor recount the bright deeds of his story ; But neglected he sleeps, While in silence she weeps, As she treasures his love and his glory. For the word of command, Has late gone through the land, That tis treason to mourn the departed ; And thus, God on his throne To vain man must alone his errors when love He imparted MISS MAHTA LA. COSTE, GEORGIA. INTO a ward of the white- washed 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 I 602 THE SOUTHEEN AMAEA.NTH. 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 the 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 hath rested there ; Was it a mother s soft and white ? Or have the lips of a sister fail- 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 t 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 his smiling, childlike lips apart DEATH OR VICTORY. 60S Tenderly bury the fair young dead Pausing to drop o er his grave a tear ; Carve on the wooden slab o er his head " Somebody s darling slumbers here." BY L. VIKGINIA FKENCH WHEN shall they all be written down, Those thousand histories that swell From highland summit, and mountain crown, And every wild and wooded dell ? "What artist hand shall bid them bloom? Or sound to foreign climes afar, The might the misery the gloom, And glory of the present war ! Shall poet souls with heart of grace Go forth, as sentinels are set And through the midnight watches, pace Each bold and bannered parapet ? To gather up with loving hands The record of a Nation s wrongs And send them forth to distant lands In Valor s stern and stately songs ? * Special Contribution. These lines were written at the request of a valued friend in memory of a noble youth, Lieut. Ehea, who fell at the battle of Belmont. He bore his great grandfather s sword, inscribed with the words "Death or Victory," (a sword which had flashed on the- battle fields of the Old Revolution) and met his fate bravely while refusing to surrender it. 604 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Not so those histories come to us, As War pours forth, its clarion strain We listen, sacred with sorrow, thus We bow amid our bitter pain. From every field that red with gore Euns crimson to the setting sun, A wail steals up that evermore Drowns the deep shout of victory won, As in old ^Revolution s day, When Fame cast laurels on the brow Of rebel chieftain so the bay Is borne by " rebel" chieftains now. Yet ah ! from every field there steals A cry that pierces heart and brain The iron entering bosoms there Strikes home to us ; all, all in vain Goes up the shout of men, we kneel Where women should to wail the slain. Manassas heard that fearful strain And evermore its anguished sound Wells up in weird and wildered plain From many a " dark and bloody ground" Bethel and Springfield heard it sigh, And Leesburg echoed deep and dread, From Belmont now it swells on high " Bring forth the dead the gallant dead I" ***** Old Mississippi s waters gleamed As in the golden days of yore ; And Autumn s crimson banners beamed DEATH OR VICTOEY. Like sunset glories on the shore. On hillside green, on billowy bay, On distant dome and shining spire The day s meridian splendors lay In waves of living fire. How peaceful all ! Nay, look I that glow As other banners floating wide, And armaments of gallant men Are moving down the water s side. They cross the stream, then brays the trump* Then rolling drums and thrilling fife. Till red-browed Battle b golden pomp Is blackening in the desperate strife. The foemen meet. Broad banners fall Or float amid the smoke and gloom, Which hangs a shrouding fune al pall Where manhood sternly marks his tomb ; Where, with his energies immortal ,,,-/ And standing face to face with Fate, He opens Glory s golden portal And makes the road to Honor straight ! Behold him there 1 The gallant KHEA, As on the battle s bloody marge, His relic-sword amid the fray, Is cheering on the desperate charge ! " For death or victory ."flashed the swords r And furious was the charge they made, For dauntless souls glowed with the words Engraven on his battle blade ! 606 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Down close the clouds. Anon they rise They re swept aside what do we see ? The youthful leader stricken lies. Yet, fighting, rises to his knee. " Surrender !" through the iron shower Hush thundering 011 the swarming hordes " Surrender! you are in our power I" Vain vain the menace ; list his words, As turning with his proud lip curled, And eye ablaze with haughty scorn " No never will I yield the sword Once by my father s father borne !" Fallen fallen ! Stricken to his knee, His right arm raised, his forehead bare, Yet twas a gallant sight to see That quiet grandeur in his air Mid the gaunt battle s thundering. blaze! It was a pained and pallid face, Yet grandly glorious to behold ; Full of that calm, majestic grace The Grecian heroes wore of old. They ve struck him down ! A score of foes Press onward for his latest breath God s rest, oh ! gallant Rhea, for those Who find both " Victory and Death P The Southland turns her streaming eyes To where thy blood baptized her sod, For her thy glorious sacrifice For her thy spirit pressed to God. A " REBEL " THAT DIED. 607 And tliou art gone ! The brave, the proud, With eye of fire and arm of might, Beneath the sable battle cloud Thy spirit passed. " God speed the Eight," The echo of thy latest breath, Heaven s rest be thine in Horror s sight, "Who won both " Victory and Death !" To hero souls of every clime, Thy stainless record still remains, Engraven on the shaft which Time One day shall rear on History s plains. This Southern land that day for thee Shall build of loving hearts a shrine, Her children s children say with me " Oh ! gallant heart ! God s will be thine I" tfaf BY AMANDA I* PATTON. I M thinking over our saddened past, The War with its triumph-swell Oreat lives gone down in the martyr- van And a nation s funeral knell. But I chose me a sad and simple theme, No title of vaunting pride . !; Ennobles my lay ; as with tears I tell Of a " Rebel " friend that died. In a skirmish at M , where MORGAN had led A band of Kentuckians true, 608 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. In the front he had fallen his boyish hand Grasping the banner of blue : A wound in his breast, and a shattered arm Both draining the crimson tide, Brought never a frown to that pallid face, Nor a groan from the lip of pride. Though he did not die till the Summer leaves Burned into the Autumn red ; (In the month when his mother waited for him In his Florida home, he said ;) Still never a murmur, nor moan nor sigh Heard we who watched by his side, The Angel of Patience had blended her soul With the soul of my friend who died. In the glare of a hospital s dreary ward, Surrounded by shriek and groan, Through the weary days and the pain-racked nights He lay, with never a moan ; His hand in mine through one terrible hour, When they severed the arm from his side, Lay passive and cold but he smiled e en then Brave heart of the " Eebel " that died ! There are souls I think, in this world of ours, Stray beams from a realm of Light, Whose hours of courage, and faith, and love, Outshine all the years of Might ; I thought so then, as his prayers arose For the loving ones severed wide, And the Flag of the Cross but I cannot tell now That prayer of the " Rebel " who died. A " REBEL " THAT DIED. 609 All ! once I remember when fever wild Burned down into heart and brain, How he raved of home how he laughed in glee To meet with his loved again ! Then he whispered low of a fair-haired girl She had promised to be his bride ; And his smile was sweet as he murmured the name Of the love of a " Rebel "who died. Then loudly he laughed in his fever wild And a " Prisoner s Guard " from sleep, Sprang up with a curse, and bade him " Be still I" As I turned aside to weep (May God forgive him He only can !) "While fancy still wandered wide, He struck the boy with a savage blow, Poor " Rebel," that suffered, and died ! But it matters not now. On a quiet eve He asked me to " kiss him good-bye," And the spirit fled from the pallid clay To its happier home on high. Do you curl your lip in a quick disdain, And scornfully turn aside ? Know this no glory of earth I prize Like the kiss of that friend who died. " One story of thousands," you well may say ; Aye I and type of the thousands more Who, faint and weary in prisoner s cell, Scorn, famine, and insult bora Though " Conquered !" be shouted above their tombs, 610 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. (I ask it with mournful pride ) On Fame s bright page are there greater names Than those of the "Rebels " who died? HOME. BY J. E. BABBICK. MY heart is sad I weep for one, the bravest of the brave, Whose battle fought whose victory won, now fills a hero s grave; Nor I alone, but thousands more, whose hearts with grief will swell, As they, the early loss deplore, of one they loved so well ; Kentucky will with sorrow weep, for him her noble son, Who died, her olden faith to keep, that freedom might be won : Fond hearts will mourn his fate to hear and silent tears be shed When told the name of one so dear, is added to the dead * Captain D. E. McKendree, who fell in the charge of Bate s Division, was among the first of Kentucky s sons to unsheathe the sword in defence of his native South. To his energy and zeal, more perhaps than to any other person living or dead, is the gallant Lewis indebted for his success in raising the 6th Kentucky regiment. The fame of McKendree will live in the memory of the Kentucky Brigade as long as one of that noble band remains, to cherish their heroic deeds. MC KENDREE. 611 At Shiloli, through the battle-storm, his gallant band he led, While shot and shell assailed his form, and whizzed above his head ; "There, by the deadly missile aimed, they bore him from the field, As shouts of victory proclaimed, the foeman forced to yield. Then once again in Tennessee, the pride of his com mand, He fought as fight the brave, and fell, to gain his na tive land ; There, as around him thickly flew the storm of shot and shell, Pierced by a missile, through and through, he faint and bleeding fell. Brave soldier 1 I would fain thy name, a nobler tribute pay, And circle round thine earthly fame, the laurel and the bay; Thy lot to fill a stranger grave thy home afar from thee, No truer heart than thine e er gave its hopes to liberty. "What balm the broken heart may heal how dry the weeping eye, Of loved ones that thy loss will feel, beneath thy native sky; C/an tears of Mother s Sister s love, one pang of pain allay, A solace to one dearer prove her sorrow chase away ? 612 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Friend of my manhood and my youth, the heart that knew thee best, Alone might to thy virtue, truth thy modest worth attest ; A soul that justice, truth, gave birth to right and honor wed, Thy step seemed in the path of earth, by unseen angels led: Here neath the light of Georgian skies, thy grave will cherished be, And stranger hearts with tearful eyes enshrine thy memory ; And as the passing age recedes, the classic pen shall tell The story of heroic deeds, where brave McKENDREE fell! rf tfo Written at the tomb of the Eentuckians who fell at Buena Vista, buried in the Cemetery at Frankfort. BY COL. THEODOKE o HAEA.* THE muffled drum s sad roll has beat The soldier s last tattoo I No more on life s parade shall meet That brave and fallen few ; On Fame s eternal camping-ground Their silent tents are spread, * This poem, apart from its intrinsic beauty, derives additional and melancholy interest from the recent death of its author. He served on the staff of Gens. Breckinridge and Bragg, in which his conduct was marked by the highest order of gallantry. THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 613 And Glory guards with solemn round, The bivouac of the dead. .No rumor of the foe s advance Now swells upon the wind, No troubled thought at midnight haunts, Of loved ones left behind. N"o vision of to-morrow s strife The warrior s dread alarms, JNb braying horn or screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms. "Their shivered swords are red with rust, Their plumed heads are bowed, Their haughty banner trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow ; And the proud forms by battle gashed, Are free from anguish now. The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The bugle s stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout are past Nor war s wild note, nor glory s peal, Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that never more may feel The rapture of the fight the fierce Northern hurricane That sweeps the great plateau, .Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe. 614 THE SOUTHERN AHABA^TH. Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of the day Was Victory or Death ! Long did the doubtful conflict raga O er all that stricken plain, For never fiercer fight did wage r The vengeful blood of Spain ; And still the storm of battle blew, Still swelled the gory tide Not long our stout old chieftain knew,. Such odds his strength could bide. Twas at this hour his stern command,. Called to a martyr s grave The flower of this his own loved land, The nation s flag to save. By rivers of their father s gore His first-born laurels grew, And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too. Full many another s breath has swept. O er Angostura s plain, And long the pitying sky has wept Above its mouldering slain. The raven s scream or eagle s flight^ Or shepherd s pensive lay, Alone now wake each solemn height That frowned o er that dread day. Sons of the " Dark and Bloody Ground/" Ye must not slumber there, THE BIVOUAC CF THE DEAD. 615 Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air ; Your own proud land s heroic soil Should be your fitter grave ; She claims from war its richest spoil The ashes of the brave. Thus neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field ; Borne to a Spartan mother s breast, On many a bloody shield : The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them there, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The hero s sepulchre. Rest on embalmed and sainted dead I Dear as the blood ye gave ; No impious footsteps here shall tread The herbage of your grave ; Nor shall your glory be forgot, "While Fame her record keeps, Or honor points the hallowed spot, Where Yalor proudly sleeps. Yon marble minstrel s voiceful stone, In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished year hath flown The story how ye fell ; Nor wreck nor change nor Winter s blight, Nor Time s remorseless doom, Can dim one ray of holy light That gilds your glorious tomb. 616 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY J. E. BAKEICK. No nobler cause than this of thine, May woman s heart engage, She needs no prouder place to win On Fame s immortal page. Go seek them in their graves unknown, And by the genial bowers, Bid on each spot in beauty spring A sisterhood of flowers. No marble slab, or graven stone, Their gallant deeds to tell ; No monument to mark the spot Where they with glory fell ; Their names shall yet a herald find In every tongue of fame, When valley, stream, and minstrel voice, Shall ring with their acclaim. Plant flowers above their lonely graves, The ivy let entwine Its tendrils there, and there be set The myrtle and the vine ; Memorials of your love shall mark Each consecrated place, And angels wandering down from Heaven, Will love the spot to trace. All o er the land like Autumn leaves, Borne on the wailing blast, GENERAL STERLING- PRICE. 617 They lie with no mementoes raised, To link them with the past. Then bid the sculptured stone renew The stor j of their fame Some monument to after-time, Their glory to proclaim. Bring flowers to deck each patriot grave, And bless the vernal sod, Where sleep those fallen ones, whose deeds Are written with their God ; _> . Place the white stone above each head The sacred spot enclose That no invading step may break The calm of their repose. BY M. P. 8. JjOVED chieftain of Missouri s swords, In Freedom s cause he wore the gray, "When fratricides and hireling hordes Involved the South in frenzied fray. In civic scenes, in battle s strife, The annals of his blameless life, His manly worth superior shone ; Virtue and Valor claim their own. His peer is known not once an age In modern times of heroes low ; 618 THE SOUTHEBN AMARANTH. And spacious history s proudest page No nobler, dearer name can show. What though to him no laurelled bust His war-scarred veterans yet may raise ? Nor sculptured shaft above his dust t Demanding fame from future days ? Their children lisp in artless love His glorious deeds and honored name ; Can conqueror s crown so precious prove, Can, cloud-capped column aid such fame ? To the fair fields beyond the shore That bounds the wasteful waves of Time, They greet one radiant spirit more To shine in that celestial clime. JGTAT . 71. THEY fail from council and from camp ! They are fall ing one by one, Those grand old heroes of the stamp of God-loved Washington I The task is wrought of mighty MEN, their glorious day is done, And Freedom mourns a faded star with every setting sun. The mould is broken ! here no more those regal souls we meet, MAJOR T. M. N. 619 Who kept their honor tho the world had rocked be neath their feet, "With that clear dignity that shone no clearer for re nown, That matchless majesty that won, but would not wear a crown. The massive brow I the kindly hand ! the proud and stalwart form, That stood as beacons in the night, as bulwarks in the storm 1 How few and far in Glory s slope, their less ning num bers stand I The pillars of a people s hope I The Titans of a land ! Now I when descends the sullen night, our country s darkest hour, When Demagogue and Parasite defile the seats of Power ; When dust is on the Eagle s crest and stain on stripe and star, Whose limbs shall fill their robes in peace, or lift their swords in war ? One more to that immortal band ! that long illustrious line, That courts no nobler name, old Friend ! no purer soul than thine 1 Thoul with the mighty in their death, their rest and their rewaid, Sleep ! in thy cloudless fame and faith, oh, Soldier of the Lord ! 620 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Yea, with the mighty in thy death ! yet not with these alone, With many a loving heart that beat most truly to thine own: Sleep ! with the Sword-Cross on thy breast, the well- worn scabbard by, Fit symbols of a Soldier s rest, and his reward on high ! THE LAND WE LOVE. GEN. OTHO F. STRAHL. BY F. AMID a scene of carnage, Where the dead and wounded lay, On the battle-field at Franklin, Our leader passed away, His comrades gathered round him As he rested on his bier, In the immobility of death And shed a manly tear. Beneath the Southern banners That proudly waved on high, With his gallant comrades round him He breathed his farewell sigh. He sleeps no more to waken, His dreams of life are fled, His rest remains unbroken The noble warrior s dead 1 THE MANY NAMELESS. 621 The time will swiftly pass away, The storm of war will cease, And o er our sunny Southern homes Will brood the dove of peace, But he with proud unbending form, "Will never come again, His battle s fought, his warfare o er He sleeps among the slain. The autumn wind sighs mournfully Around that lonely grave ; Then sing for Strahl a requiem, Our leader true and brave. llw BY MISS MABY MTJLLALY, NEW YOKE. LET others sing in glowing verse the men who gathered laurel Upon the fields where North and South oft met in deadly quarrel - The deeds which will a glory shed upon the page historic, Or gleam from dainty blue and gold or hide in tones plethoric - The names that in the coming years will second be to no names, * Special Contribution 622 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. But in Fame s scroll shine forth the peers of any Greek s or Koman s. That like a clarion blast will rouse some future Tell or Brutus, And when we lose our faith in man stand forward to confute us. But we will sing the nameless host unknown in song or story, Half hidden in the dazzling light of aggregated glory The men whose deeds have made their chiefs renowned to all futurity While they loom dimly through the haze of luminous obscurity, The common herd the rank and file, th anonymous immortals Who ope, but never enter through Fame s glorious, golden portals ; Who mined and trenched and marched and toiled, with ardor unabated, And swept across the battlefields like whirlwinds incarnated ; Whose grand impersonal renown adds to their country s glory, But gives them not one line in song, and not one page in story. VIRGINIA S DEAD. 623 Others may sing the glorious chiefs, whose names will live forever, The types of lofty faith, brave deeds, and noble, high endeavor Who showed to a degenerate age what true men lay a stress on, Hevived man s waning faith and gave the world a needed lesson Made our utilitarian age outshine the age heroic, And softened with a Christian grace the virtues of the stoic A good and gracious life is theirs, a noble and a blameless, But while they praise the glorious few, we ll laud the many nameless ! PROUD mother of a race that reared The brave and good of ours, Lo ! on thy bleeding bosom lie Thy pale and cherished flowers. Where er upon their own bright soil Hosts meet their blood to shed, Where brightest gleams the victor s sword, There lie Virginia s dead. 624 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. And where upon the crimson field The cannon loudest roars, And hero-blood for liberty A streaming torrent pours ; Where fiercest glows the battle s rage, And Southern banners spread, Where minions crouch and vassals kneel, There lie Virginia s dead. Where bright Potomac s classic wave Flows softly to the sea, And Shenandoah s valley smiles In her captivity ; Where sullen Mississippi rolls, By foaming torrents fed, And Tennessee s smooth ripple breaks There lie Virginia s dead. And where mid dreary mountain-heights The frost-king sternly sate, As Garnett cheered his followers on, And nobly met his fate ; Where Johnston, Lee, and Beauregard Their gallant armies led, Through winter snows and tropic suns, There sleep Virginia s dead. And where through Georgia s flowery meads The proud Savannah flows, And soft o er Carolina s brow Atlantic s pure breeze blows ; VIRGINIA S DEAD. 625 Where Florida s sweet tropic flowers Their dewy fragrance shed, And night-winds sigh through orange-groves, There sleep Virginia s dead. Where sad Louisiana s eye Looks darkly on her chains, And proud New Orleans noble streets The despot s heel profanes ; Where virtue shrinks in dread dismay, And beauty bows her head, Where courage spurns the oppressor s yoke, There lie Virginia s dead. Neath Alabama s sunny skies On Texas burning shore Where blooming prairies brightly sweep Missouri s bosom o er Where bold Kentucky s lion heart Leaps to her Morgan s tread, And tyrants quail at Freedom s cry, There sleep Virginia s dead. And where the ocean s trackless waves O er pallid corpses sweep, As mid the cannon s thunder-peel " Deep calleth unto deep ;" Wherever Honor s sword is drawn, And Justice rears her head, Where heroes fall and martyrs bleed, There rest Virginia s dead I 27 626 THE SOUTHERN AMAEANTH. BY JOHN B. SMITH. [Among those killed in the battles before Nashville, was a beautiful Confed erate boy, apparently not more than fifteen years of age.] ON the hard-fought field, where the battle-storm Had echoed its sullen thunder, Lay a soldier-child, with the golden thread Of his young life snapped asunder. He had comrades stark, in the great death-sleep, Lying cold in their bloody places ; But they were bearded men with stalwart frames, And man s look on their faces. But this soldier-child, with his silken locks O er his smooth white forehead sweeping, With a horrid wound in his brave young breast, Seemed too fair for Death s grim keeping. For his beardless face, in its calm repose, Bore the mark of Beauty s finger, And his fine sweet mouth seemed the tempting spot Where a woman s lips might linger. TOO YOUNG TO DIE. 627 Like slender shadows on fleecy snow, O er his cheek crept the fringing lashes Of the white closed lids of his great dark eyes, All veined with faint, azure flashes. O er the wounded breast, with a touching grace, His delicate hands were folded, With a meek soft clasp, as if for a prayer Their dying shape was moulded. I thought, as beside this warrior child Mine own young head was bending, That perhaps an angel mother s prayers Were heavenward then ascending : That the arm of the Father who dwelleth where Sweet peace is never-ending, Might be found in the battle s dreaded hour Her darling boy defending. I thought how the voice of the false-faced world Would waft her the mournful story, With its pompous words for a healing balm, And its mocking meed of glory. But that mother s breast with its hopeless grief And its mighty pain is aching ; The chaplet of Fame is a withered wreath, When a mother s heart is breaking. 628 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. BY S. Y. LEVY, SAVANNAH, GA. ALMIGHTY GOD ! eternal Sire and King ! Kuler Supreme, who all things didst create ; Whose everlasting praises angels sing ; Whose word is mercy and whose thought is fate ; Trembling before Thy awful, awful throne we kneel, Beseeching mercy at Thy gracious hand ; Praying that in compassion Thou wilt heal The bleeding wounds of this most suffering land. We know our sins are manifold, O Lord, And that Thy wrath against us is but right ; For we have wandered widely from Thy word, And things committed wrongful in Thy sight. But Thou, O Lord, art powerful to save, And full of mercy, full of love art Thou ; Else had we not the courage thus to brave Thy righteous wrath thus at Thy feet we bow* O er all our fields, where late the joyful air Struck rustling music from the waving grain, Now the sad earth is lying stark and bare, Or groaning neath the burden of our slain. A PRAYER FOR PEACE. 629 In sackcloth robed, disconsolate and wild, With ashes strewed upon her lovely breast, Our country mourns her hearts and homes denied Weeps for her bravest, and bewails her best. Trom the cold hearths, where lately genial fires Beamed upon scenes of innocent delight, The little children vainly call their sires, Or fly their burning homes with wild affright. Our punishment is very hard to bear ; We droop and faint beneath Thy chastening rod ; Oh, list in mercy to our earnest prayer, And move Thy anger from us, O our God ! "Throw, Lord, thy buckler thick twixt us and harm ; Bid the destruction and the carnage cease ; Outstretch in power Thy all-protecting arm ; Roll back the clouds of war, and give us peace. .And as Thou led st Thy chosen people forth From Egypt s sullen wrath, O King of kings ! ;So smite the armies of the cruel North, And bear us to our hopes " on eagle s wings." But should Thy wisdom still defer the day The wished-for day our freedom shall be won Oh, grant us the humility to say, Not human will, but Thine, O Lord, be done ! 630 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH, [A Confederate officer, Major Roberdore Wheat, while leading a charge ins one of the battles before Richmond, fell mortally wounded, exclaiming - * Bury me on the field, boys !"] BY MISS MARY 8. GRASON, MARYLAND. BURY me on the field, boys ! When the deadly strife is o er ; This trusty blade I ll wield, boys, For our firesides never more : Come, raise my head, I scarce can hear The thundering cannon s roar. Bury me where the countless dead In dreamless slumber rest, Where the charger s iron hoof may tread O er the sod that wraps my breast ; Here let me sleep, since victory Our glorious cause hath blessed. Yes, lay me here, where these pine-trees In the evening s solemn hush, Where stars may shine on my lowly grave, Where the morning sun may blush ; And I ll be proud to rest, boys, Where our dauntless columns rush. Shed not one tear for me nay, never, My comrades brave and bold ; I shrink not back from that dark river Which flows so icy cold ; MAXCY GREGG. 631 But wish my mother could hold my hand, And kiss me as of old. My sight is growing strangely dim, I feel Death s chilly wing ; Methought I heard the cradle-hymn My mother used to sing ; Strange how such pleasant fantasies This parting hour should bring. Nay, pause not by my side, boys, See where our flag on high Floats o er the battle s tide, boys- Haste ! to that standard fly And tell my dear old mother, boys, Her son knew how to die. Bury him on the field, boys, By light of the dying sun, With the sword he used to wield, boys, For the conflict now is done ; Nor weep, for that warrior brave, boys, A double crown hath won. BY C. G. P. LONG have I lingered by the lovely mount Where our great hero lies, To hear some gifted bard in song recount His deeds of high emprise ; 632 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Some great historic minstrel sweep the string, And downward fling A requiem telling of a nation s grief Bringing the soul relief Or chant of praise, to roll for aye along A deathless tide of song, Spreading and deepening till our rising youth, Laved by its sacred wave, reflect its crystal truth. No sound of voice was heard, Save " cherup" of a bird ; Sharp falling in the still or, to ear attent, The far-off river lent The pleasant music of its soothing moan, Bushing o er bed of stone. All hushed ! but now a note Seems on the breeze to float, Borne upward from the city, spreading fair Beneath the golden air Of the rich sunset hour ; No voice of strength or power But the sweet tribute of a youthful heart Ready to do his part : * Who, since the great heroic bards are mute, Strikes with the hand of love his garland dighted lute. * ; - #"# V# "#;.- " Twas in the winter wild" They bore her dauntless child Back to his mother on his spotless shield, * Lines on the death of Gen. Gregg, by a lad of thirteen. NAXCY GKEGG. 633 And laid him to his rest Within her yearning breast, Where, like a happy child, he now reposes ; And, as in days of yore, His morning gambols o er, He lay all flushed and happy from his toy, And slept their darling boy Between his parents, so in death he lies Neath Carolina s skies, While Spring, her crown of roses Half shaded in a drapery of woe, Comes on with footsteps slow To scatter flowers upon the triple mound Soft swelling from the ground, "Where they whose love was stronger far than death, Wait the reviving breath Of that fresh morn when bursting graves shall yield The precious seed laid up to bloom in heavenly field. Struck down in noon of life Amid the battle strife ! What great eclipse fell then upon the State ! How dimly broke the morn How sad ! whose early dawn Came ushered in with tidings of thy fate ! Carolina, in her darksome grief, JBowed low her stately head, and sought in tears relief. Patriot and statesman true ! Long shall thy country rue The keen-eyed watchman, wont from silent tower, With, calm, prophetic gaze, 27* 634 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. To scan the rising haze That o er the sunny South began to lower ; Presaging that the hour was nigh When a terrific storm should sweep across the sky. It came with bloody hue. Thy sword the tried and true Leapt from its scabbard, where it long had lain ; And in thy grasp of might, All glowing for the fight, Streamed like a meteor o er the gory plain ! Each soldier hailed its cheering ray, And followed with a shout where er it led the way ! Quick at its chieftain s call He left the council hall, With statesmen met, to save the common weal Heady for any fate, So he could check the hate Of foes vindictive in their deadly zeal. But not on Carolina s soil Was he to meet the blow that eased him of his toil. Twas neath thy saddened eyes He paid that sacrifice, Virginia ! But his last fond sigh was given To his loved home afar, His true soul s polar star ; For her he rendered back his life to Heaven ; And cheerfully his languid eye Saw, through the film of death, her independence nigh. THE ASHBYS. 635 A pure immortal fame Gilds his heroic name, Which soon the polished marble shall record : Thank God, we here may write With pencil dipped in light, " He placed his hope in the Eternal Word, And on his Saviour s breast Laid his war-wearied head in calm and peaceful rest. BY DAN. B. LUCAS. AND lo ! there galloped through the gate of war Two brothers, riding side by side, with spurs, And nodding plumes, and swords that gleamed in air, And eyes like day, when first the sun appears. They strode their steeds as Neptune strides the sea,. And mane to mane they bounded through the vale Like music, or like laughter on the gale, And smiled at Danger, as more brave than he. Their long, black locks played in our Southern wind,. Which left the orange-buds and citron-grove To follow them, though often -left behind Plaining, in soft Eolian sighs of love. * Turner and Richard Ashby. 636 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. One fatal morning laid the younger low No more by rattling hoof of his, the fawn Was startled, as she browsed the hill at dawn No more his bugle-blast struck terror to the foe. His brother dead, like Leda s Jove-born son On milk-white steed, among the Argive youth, The ASHBY, mid his Southern comrades shone, Craving one immortality for both ; Pull oft at dawn Potomac saw him nigh, His beard upon his charger flowing free (A black-swan s wing upon the frothy sea) The war-gaze filling all his dark, romantic eye. By eve the fount far up some Hampshire dell Laughed in the snowy fetlocks of his steed ; The star-begotten river knew him well Oft broke his image on her rocky bed ; And Tuscarora, with her maiden mien, Swayed to the horseman as he rode beside, Silent as she, and deeper than her tide, A knightly form as ever water-nymph had seen. "Stern only to the foe, his name a spell Won on the soldiers hearts, and made him dear, Till off the edge of war the Ashby fell Dropped from the cope, and went out like a star. Here lie the twain ; their epitaph be this : " THESE BROTHERS STRUGGLING ONE JUST CAUSE TO GAIN, ONE IMMORTALITY ACHIEVED IN VAIN ; AND NOW TOGETHER SLEEP IN ONE SWEET DREAM OF PEACE. THE BURIAL OF BRIG-GEN. JENKINS. G37 " THEY ARE NOT DEATH S ! KELINQUISHED ALL HIS CLAIM ! THEIR DEEDS TO HISTORY AND IMMORTAL SONG, THEIR SOULS TO GOD, THEIR MEMORIES TO FAME, THEIR ASHES TO VIRGINIA BELONG !" Sleep, heroes ! with no weight but flowers, sleep ! Your mother, like the osprey, makes her nest For you with feathers plucked from her own breast, Until the trumpet sound ; then, seabirds,wing the deep I At Summerville, Whitsunday, May 15th, 1864. BY c. G. P. BRING blossons from the rosy beds of May, Bay from the woodland, Mrytle from the bowers, And Arbor-vitse, whose enduring leaf Symbols the life eternal ; and let fair hands "Weave them in garlands to adorn the mound "Where sleeps the brave and true. Sweet his repose Near the maternal bosom, from whose fount He drew the virtues that made up his life. A few short weeks ago that silent breast Throbbed with a holy joy, when to her heart The mother pressed her young, heroic son, And bade him, with her blessing, go again And battle for his country. Far then seemed Their day of meeting but God brought it near. 638 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Here is no martial note or organ s swell, To honor, with its wild or solemn strain, Our hero s burial ; only one lone bird Pours on the fragrant air a shower of song. Sing on, sweet warbler ! for what holier note Can charm him to his rest than thine Heaven-taught, And flowing like the angels , from a breast Wholly at peace with God ? Heart-soothing strain ! How different from the noisy din of strife The war-trump and the cannon s awful roar ! Glide softly to the mourners sorrowing hearts, And fit them for the promise of this day The Comforter sent forth to all who weep, And bearing dews of healing on his wing. One blessed Sabbath, when the Lenten fast Was drawing to its close, and streaks of light, As heralding the glorious Easter morn, Began to pierce the gloom, we saw thee bow Within this temple ; and on bended knee Tleceive in reverent hand the bread divine, And carry to thy lips the wine of life, Which, to the heart of faith, is heavenly food. We little dreamed it thy viaticum, And that by Whitsuntide thy mortal frame Would have been given to the silent dust, With tears of kindred and a nation s grief. We thought to see thee in the coming time, When meek-eyed Peace has once more blessed our land, Wearing the laurel-wreath thy valor won, And clothed in garments of prosperity ; Living to good old age, with " troops of friends," DECORATING THE GRAVES OF OUR DEAD. 639 And children s children gathered round thy hearth Thy warm, bright, Southern hearth to hear thee tell Of deeds of prowess by our heroes wrought In the great struggle, but with modest grace Setting aside thine own. We fondly dreamed ; -But God has willed it otherwise. Farewell ! True soldier of thy country and of Christ ! "With what assured hope we leave thee here, To wait the archangel trump ! Thy spirit fled Upon the shout of triumph ; and the sound Took a seraphic sweetness, as thy soul, Nearing the gate of Paradise, was met By throngs of white-robed spirits, bearing palms, And singing hymns of victory and peace. April 26th, 1867. BY LEOLA, GEORGIA. THE battle shout is heard no more, The thundering guns are silent now, The flag we loved is folded o er, And Death sleeps on the soldier s brow. Dark is the gloom Around his tomb, "Where weeping loved ones lowly bow. The voice of triumph echoes not Its thrilling strains upon the air, 640 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. No victor s song awakes the spot, No marble rears its head so fair, But, thanks, to God, That precious sod Hides no unfeeling ruffian there ! High-toned and brave, he asked no fame, No pageant grand or gilded shrine, But he has left " a deathless name," And memories that no foe can bind, Whose virtues bright, In endless light, Through all eternity will shine. For who could e er forget that there A JACKSON or a JOHNSTON fell? Can those who ve robbed us ever dare To take e en memories loved so well ? No ! Tyrant hands May take our lands, But ne er such glorious deeds expel. Then let us wreath in garlands sweet The flowers that April brings again ;, From broad Potomac s silvery sheet To Florida s lone sandy plain, Let cypress wave O er every grave, Where gently rest our gallant slain. How many homes have been bereft, Of all in life they held so dear ! How many aching hearts are left To weep in anguish o er the bier ! THE TOMB OF ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON. 641 Then let us all, Both great and small, Unite together once a year, To mourn, o er Freedom s hallowed grave, A ruined country s broken trust O er those who bled our rights to save, But now lie mouldering in the dust. Tis sacred ground Then strew around The gifts of One forever just. Near Cumberland s dark rolling wave, An eldest brother peaceful sleeps : Perhaps sometimes upon his grave, A sympathizing stranger weeps ; And should she there Place flowers fair, When twilight over Franklin creeps, I know that one lone widowed heart The kindly deed will ever bless, And tears from thankful children start, "Who miss the father s fond caress. Ah ! tis sweet to feel That we may heal A heart that s bleeding in distress. EPITAPH. [A lady correspondent, in a recent stroll through the St. Louis Cemeteiy, visited the grave of General Albert Sidney Johnston, and found a written epitaph, pasted upon a rough hoard attached to the torah. In her note to T. 642 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. T. our fair correspondent says she was affected to tears upon reading it, and took the trouble to copy it verbatim. She begs us to find out the author, and she should be gratified in that desire if it were possible for T. T. to do so. Town Talk of the New Orleans Times.} IN MEMORIAM. Behind this stone is laid, For a season, ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON, A General in the Army of the Confederate States, "Who fell at Shiloh, Tennessee, On the sixth day of April, A. D. eighteen hundred and sixty-two ; A man tried in many high offices And critical enterprises, And found faithful in all. His life was one long sacrifice of interest to conscience ; And even that life, on a woful Sabbath, Did he yield as a holocaust at his country s need. Not wholly understood was he while he lived ; But in his death his greatness stands confessed In a people s tears. Resolute, moderate, clear of envy, yet not wanting In that finer ambition that makes men great and pure \ In his honor impregnable ; In his simplicity sublime ; No country e er had a truer son no cause a nobler champion ; No people a bolder defender no principle a purer victim, Than the dead soldier Who sleeps here ! The cause for which he perished is lost The people for whom he fought are crushed The hopes in which he trusted are shattered IN MEMORIAM D. J. R. 643 The flag lie loved guides no more the charging lines ; But his fame, consigned to the keeping of that time which, Happily, is not so much the tomb of Virtue as its shrine, Shall, in the years to come, fire modest worth to noble ends. In honor now our great captain rests ; A bereaved people mourn him ; Three commonwealths proudly claim him ; And history shall cherish him Among those choicer spirits who, holding their con science unmixed with blame, Have been, in all conjunctures, true to themselves, their country, and their God. f I5Y MOINA (REV. A. J. RYAN.) THOU art sleeping, brother, sleeping, In thy lonely battle grave ; Shadows o er the past are creeping Death, the Eeaper, still is reaping Years have swept, and years are sweeping Many a memory from my keeping, But I m waiting still and weeping For my Beautiful and Brave. When the battle songs were chanted, And war s stirring tocsin pealed ; By whose songs thy heart was haunted And thy spirit proud, undaunted, 644 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. Clamored wildly wildly panted " Mother ! let my wish be granted ! I will ne er be mocked and taunted That I feared to meet our vaunted Foeman on the bloody field." " They are thronging, mother, thronging To a thousand fields of fame ! Let me go tis wrong tis wronging God and thee to crush this longing. On the muster-roll of glory, In my country s future story, On the field of battle gory, I must consecrate my name. " Mother, gird my sword upon me ; Kiss thy soldier-boy good-bye : " In her arms she wildly wound thee, To thy birthland s cause she bound thee, "With fond prayers and blessings crowned thee, And she sobbed " When foes surround thee, If you fall, I ll know they found thee "Where the bravest love to die." x- -x- * # At the altar of their nation Stood that mother and her son : He the victim of oblation, Panting for his immolation ; She in priestess holy station Weeping words of consecration, While God smiled his approbation, Blessed the boy s self-abnegation, Cheered the mother s desolation, When the sacrifice was done. IN MEMOKIAM D. J. K. 645 Forth, like many a noble other, Went he whispering soft and low, " Good-bye pray for me, my mother ! Sister, kiss me ! farewell, brother !" And he strove his grief to smother. Forth, with spirit proud and peerless Forth, with footsteps firm and fearless, And his parting gaze was tearless, Though his heart was lone and cheerless Thus from all he loved to go. Jjo ! yon flag of freedom flashing In the sunny Southern sky ! On to death and glory dashing On where swords are clanging clashing On where balls are crushing crashing ! On mid perils, dread, appalling ! On they re falling falling falling ! On they re growing fewer fewer ! On their hearts beat all the truer ! On on on no fear no falter ! On though round the battle-altar There were wounded victims groaning There were dying victims moaning On right on death danger braving Warring where their flag was waving, And baptismal blood was laving With a tide of crimson water All that field of death and slaughter ! On still on that bloody laver Made them brave and made them braver ; On with never a halt or waver On they re battling bleeding bounding, 646 THE SOUTHERN AMAKANTH. While the glorious shout is sounding, " We will win the day or die !" And they won it ! Eouted riven Keeled the foeman s proud array ; They had struggled long and striven, Blood in torrents they had given, But their ranks, dispersed and driven, Fled disgracefully away. Many a heart was lonely lying There that would not throb again ; Some were dead and some were dying ; Some were silent, some were sighing ; Thus to die lone unattended Unbewept and unbefriended On that bloody battle plain. When the twilight, sadly, slowly Wrapped its mantle o er them all O er those thousands lying lowly Hushed in silence deep and holy There was one his blood was flowing, And his last of life was going And his pulse faint fainter beating, Told his hours were few and fleeting ; And his brow grew white and whiter, And his eyes shone bright and brighter There he lay like infant dreaming, With his sword beside him gleaming ; For the hand in life that grasped it, True to death still fondly clasped it. There his comrades found him lying, Mid the heaps of dead and dying ; THE LAND OF MEMORIES. 647 And the sternest there bent weeping, O er that lonely sleeper sleeping. Twas the midnight stars shone round him In a shroud of glory bound him ; And they told us how they found him Where the bravest love to fall. Where the woods, like banners bending, Drooped in glory and in gloom There, when that sad night was ending, And the faint, fair dawn was blending With the stars now fast descending There they mute and mournful bore him With the stars and shadows o er him There they laid him down, so tender, And the next day s sun and splendor Flashed upon my brother s tomb ! REV. A. J. RYAN. A land "without ruins is a land without memories a land without memories is a land without liberty. A land that wears a laurel crown may be fair to see, but twine a few sad cypress leaves around the brow of any land, and be that land beautiless and bleak, it becomes lovely in its consecrated coronet of sorrow and it wins the sympathy of the heart and history. Crowns of roses fade, crowns of thorns endure. Calvaries and crucifixes take deepest hold of humanity the triumphs of might are transient, they pass away and are forgotten the sufferings of right are graven deepest on the chron icles of nations. 648 THE SOUTHERN AMARANTH. YES ! give me a land where the ruins are spread, And the living tread light on the hearts of the dead ; Yes, give me a land that is blest by the dust, And bright with the deeds of the down- trodden just Yes, give me the land where the battle s red blast Has flashed on the future the form of the past ; Yes, give me the land that hath legend and lays That tell of the memories of long vanished days ; Yes, give me a land that hath story and song, To tell of the strife of the right with the wrong ; Yes, give me the land with a grave in each spot, And names in the graves that shall not be forgot : Yes, give me the land of the wreck and the tomb, There s a grandeur in graves there s a glory in gloom For out of the gloom future brightness is born, As after the night looms the sunrise of morn ; And the graves of the dead, with the grass overgrown, May yet form the footstool of liberty s throne, And each single wreck in the war-path of might, Shall yet be a rock in the temple of Eight NEW YOKE FREEMAN S JOUBNAL. THE END. 6 !> -I-lOOw-8, 34