'/#. FROM THE LAYS OF LATER DAYS. COLLECTED AND EDITED J. p BLELOCK & Co., No. 19 BEEKMAN STREET. 1866. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1SG6, by T. C. DE LEON, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the District of Maryland of WHOSE NOBLE SACRIFICES AND UNTIRING EXERTIONS FOR THE SICK DURING THE WHOLE WAR, HATE WRITTEN THEM IN LETTERS OF LOVE, SISTERS OF is $nscrikbf : PBEFACE. A BOOK without a preface is like a salad without salt ; but in offering the poems in this volume to the public, I can add little to what they speak for themselves. The sole object of the collection is to' make known a few noble poems that belong rather to the world than to any par ticular section, and to show those who have read REBEL RUYMES that " There's life in the old land yet " to do higher and better things. Knowing that the South was surrounded during the war by a Chinese wall, that hid many important points of her history even from those beyond it, I was still surprised at the utter ignorance in the North of her having produced any thing like a high order of poetry. This ignorance extended, too, even to those whose principles or sympathies made them peer, with straining eyes, through every possible crevice in the barrier. It is with diffidence, proportioned to the difficulties that sur round it, that I have approached the task. The garland is to be gathered from a field extensive and teeming with a rank luxuriance of growth, that it must often puzzle the analyst to separate from the really valuable. Little as is known of it, and confined, as it has ever been, to particular cliques, there is yet much latent literature in the South. The terrible friction, however, so long and so roughly applied, brought only the metrical element to the surface. v In prose of all kinds the South stood still, perhaps retro graded ; but she "Lisped in numbers, for the numbers came /" The thousand tragical incidents and picturesque situations of a war like this offered rare motives to the true poet, and tempting opportunities to the rhymster of low degree. Magazines, albums, and newspaper corners overflowed with the effusions of these latter, on all subjects, and of all lengths. But occasionally in a great crisis of the war, or when a heavy calamity bore upon the whole people, some mightier one lifted his voice and spoke words that live. These I have en deavored to preserve in more durable form than the pressure of the times when they were uttered could allow. Some of them were comparatively unknown, even in the South; partly, that grave and absorbing duties of the hour weighed upon the public mind ; but more, I imagine, from want of some general medium of circulation. Many again found their way to the camps, were at once adopted by the soldiers, and became " Familiar in their mouths as household words." But, as with the popular poems of most revolutions, these were the "taking" songs of a lower order ephemera that have lived out the day for which they were born. In this effort to show the quality; and not the quantity, of Southern poetry, few even of the most popular of these have been introduced, Where possible, I have had each poem carefully corrected by its author. I have been warned that in certain quarters the poems are considered rebellious incendiary, even and as tending to re- v vive a bitterness now buried and still. To these irrationals I have no word to say. I ask no favor at their hands, having sufficient confidence in my adopted children to trust them to stand alone. If poems, born of revolution, bore no marks of the bitter need that crushed them from the hearts of their authors, they would have no value whatever, intrinsic or historical. The feelings that prompted them live no longer. The^South put her cause in the hands of the God of Battles. She has made no murmur since his decree was spoken. A people who have accepted the inevitable with the dignified quiet of hers, can be taught no wrong by the repetition, in perfect peace, of words spoken to them while yet in the heat of a bitter struggle. The effect of the war has been to raise the Southern charac ter in the opinion of the North ; and the feeling that the South is a conquered province abject and bound is fast dying out in the breadth of the land. These poems may aid in this good work ; but read at every fireside in the South, they are to-day as harmless as the '-'Lays of Ancient Some." Their authors, whatever they may have been, are now simply private citizens. I shall not invade their sancta to search for the motives that impelled them. That they wrote honestly, none who read their words can doubt ; and I am well content to leave them in the hands of the public, saying only : " By their works shall ye know them.' 1 '' T. C. DB L. BALTIMORE, MD., February 15, 18G6. YOUR MISSION, BURIAL OP LATANE, THE GUERRILLAS, .... TILE LONE SENTRY, JACKSON, To THE EXCHANGED PRISONERS, THE HERO WITHOUT A NAME, THE CAVALIER'S GLEE, . THE RIVER, A POEM THAT NEEDS NO DEDICATION, DIRGE FOR ASIIBY, .... A BALLAD FOR THE YOUNG SOUTH, ASHBY, THERE'S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET, A CRY TO ARMS, . THE BAREFOOTED BOYS, . THE TENNESSEE EXILE'S SONG, . SOMEBODY'S DARLING, MONODY ON JACKSON, .... COERCION, THE WAR CHRISTIAN'S THANKSGIVING, VIRGINIANS OF THE YALLEY, . Anon, . . . John R. Thompson, . S. Teackle Wallis, James R. Randall, . Harry Flash, . Anon, ... Col. W. S. Hawkins, Wm. Maclcford, . Paul H. Hayne, . J. JBarron Hope, Joseph Brennan, John R. Thompson, James R. Randall, Henry Timrod, . Anon, .. P. Y. P., .. Anon, .. The Exile, .. John R. Thompson, 8. Teackle Wallis, Frank TicTcnor, PA as 15 20 23 27 29 30 33 38 40 44 48 51 56 58 60 63 65 67 69 71 75 78 PAGE THE BALLAD OF THE EIGHT, . . J. W. Overall, . . 80 ZOLLICOFFER, Harry Flash, . . 83 A WORD WITH THE WEST, . . John R. Thompson, . 84 You CAN NEVER WIN THEM BACK, . Anon, . . . 88 BEAUREGARD'S APPEAL, . . . Paul H. Hayne, . . 90 THE CAMEO BRACELET, . . . James R. Randall, . 92 MELT THE BELLS, .... Anon, ... 94 CANNON SONG, .... Anon, . . . 96 BATTLE EVE, Susan Archer Talley, . 98 THE UNRETURNING, .... Anon, ... 99 THE LAST OF EARTH, . . . Col. W. S. Haivkins, .101 THE MOTHER'S TRUST, . . . Mrs. G. A.H. McLeod, 104 'A GENERAL INVITATION, . , , I. R., . . . . 107 THE BRAVE AT HOME, . . . Anon, . . .108 MARYLAND, James R. Randall, . 110 THERE'S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET, Frank Key Howard, 1 14 LINES AFTER DEFEAT, .... Paid H. Hayne, . .116 ENGLAND'S NEUTRALITY, . . . John R. Thompson, 117 THE FANCY SHOT, .... Anon, . . .126 VOLUNTEERED, Anon, . . . 128 JOHN PELIIAM, James R. Randall, . 131 OBSEQUIES OF STUART, . . . John R. Thompson, . 133 IS THERE ANY NEWS OF THE WAR? . A non, . . .137 A PRAYER FOR PEACE, S. Teackle Wallis, . 139 THE CONQUERED BANNER, . . . Hoina, . . . 143 Soutl) Songs. SOUTH SONGS. (I.) 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 or bower; But come with your souls in your faces To meet the stern needs of the hour ! Look around! By the torch-light unsteady, The dead and the dying seem one. What ! paling and trembling already, Before your dear mission's begun? These wounds are more precious than ghastly; Time presses her lips to each scar, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 16 out| Mission. 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 on 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, Gay-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 wet his pale lips with your tears. ission, 17 Touch him gently most sacred the duty Of dressing that poor shattered hand ! God spare him to rise in his beauty, And battle once more for his land! Who groaned ? What a passionate murmur "In TJiy mercy, God! let me die!" Ha! surgeon, your hand must be firmer; That grapeshot has shattered his thigh.. Fling the light on those poor furrowed features ; Gray-haired and unknown, bless the brother ! O God ! that one of Thy creatures Should e'er work such woe on another ! Wipe the sweat from his brow with your kerchief; Let the stained, tattered collar go wide. See ! he stretches out blindly to search if The surgeon still stands at his side. " My sorts over yonder ! he's wounded Oh! this ball that's broken my thigh!" And again he burst out, all a-tremble, "In Thy mercy, God! let me die!" Pass on ! It is useless to linger While others are claiming your care; 18 There's 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 ! 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 ! 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 these dear ones what woman Alone in her pity can do. Mission. 19 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 sisters cry "Hail!" But e'en if you drop down unheeded, What matter? God's ways are the best! You have poured out your life where 'twas needed, And He will take care of the rest ! 20 <|he Burial of &atae. 0f THE combat raged not long, but ours the day ; And, through the hosts that 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. 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 ! Even thus he passed through the red gates of strife, From earthly crowns and palms, to an immor tal life. A brother bore his body from the field, And gave it unto strangers' 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, Sat by the open tomb, and weeping, looked above. tphe Burial of >atane. 21 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. 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, with accents soft and low, Trembling with pity touched with pathos read Over his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead. " ' Tis sown in weakness, it is raised in power /" Softly the promise floated on the air, While the low breathings of the sunset hour Came back responsive to the mourner's prayer. Gently they laid him underneath the sod, And left him with his fame, his country, and his God! 22 fghe Bwjial of 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 by the stormy shore, Change can not 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 Lataiie I uer L iji)la$. 23 AWAKE and to horse ! my brothers, For the dawn is glimmering gray, And hark ! in the crackling brushwood There are feet that tread this way ! "Who cometh?" "A friend!" "What tidings?" "O God! I sicken to tell; For the earth seems earth no longer, And its sights are sights of hell ! " There's rapine, and fire, and slaughter, From the mountain down to the shore ; There's blood on the trampled harvest, 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 houseless Ring out, like a dirge, on the gale ! " I've seen, from the smoking village Our mothers and daughters fly ! 24 Cphe 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 ! 11 Where my home was glad, are ashes, And horror and shame had been there; For I found, on the fallen lintel, This tress of my wife's torn hair ! " They are turning the slave upon us, And with more than the fiend's worst art, Have uncovered the fires of the savage, That slept in his untaught heart ! "The ties to our hearths that bound him, They have rent, with curses, away, And maddened him, with their madness, To be almost as brutal as they. "With halter, and torch, and Bible, And hymns, to the sound of the drum, 25 They preach the gospel of murder, And pray for lust's kingdom to come ! " To saddle ! to saddle ! my brothers ! Look up to the rising sun, And ask of the God who shines there, Whether deeds like these shall be done. "Wherever the vandal cometh, Press home to his heart with your steel; And where'er at his bosom ye can not, 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 hand alone is judgment, But He strikes with the hands of men, 26 And His blight would wither our manhood, If we smote not the smiter aain. " By the graves where our fathers slumber, By the shrines where our mothers prayed, By our homes, and hopes, and freedom, Let every man swear on his blade "That he will not sheath nor stay it Till from point to heft it glow, With the flush of Almighty vengeance, In the blood of the felon foe !" They swore ; and the answering sunlight Leapt red from their lifted swords, And the hate in their hearts made echo To the wrath in their burning words ! There's weeping in all New-England, And by Schuylkill's bank a knell ; And the widows there, and the orphans, How the oath was kept can tell. (phe &oue $cn%. 27 9am 'TwAS as the dying of the day, The darkness grew so still ; The drowsy pipe of evening birds Was hushed upon the hill. 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 dre-amful 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 ; 28 Richmond and Sharp sburgh 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. 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 Right ! The soul of Jackson stalks abroad, And guards the camp to-night! Jackson. 29 Jfachsoir* 'mid the lightning of the stormy fight, Not in the rush upon the vandal foe, Did kingly Death, with his resistless might, Lay the Great Leader low. His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke In the full sunshine of a peaceful town. When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak That propped our cause went down. Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, Recording all his grand, heroic deeds, Freedom herself is writhing with 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 is the loss : A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown ; And, while his country staggers with the Cross, He rises with the Crown ! 30 fo the THE anchors are weighed, and the gates of your prison Fall wide, as your ship gives her prow to the foam, And a few hurried hours shall return you exulting, Where the flag you have fought for floats over your home. God send that not long may its folds be uplifted O'er fields dark and sad with the trail of the fight- God give it the triumph He always hath given, Or sooner or later, to Valor and Right ! But if peace may not yet wreath your homes with her olive, And new victims are still round the altar to bleed, God shield you amid the red bolts of the battle ! God give you stout hearts for high thought and brave deed ! $o the Exchanged itfyiaonetjs, 31 No need we should bid you go strike for your freedom You have stricken, like men, for its blessings before, And your homes and your loved ones, your wrongs and your manhood, Will nerve you to fight the good fight o'er and o'er ! But will you not think, as you wave your glad ban ners, How the flag of old Maryland, trodden in shame, Lies sullied and torn in the dust of her highways And will you not strike a fresh blow in her name ? Her mothers have sent their first-born to be with Wherever with blood there are fields to be won Her daughters have wept for you, clad you and nursed you- Their vows and* their hopes and their smiles are your own. Let her cause be your cause, and whenever the war-cry Bids you rush to the field, oh ! remember her too 32 (f>o the And when freedom and peace shall be blended in glory, Oh ! count it your shame if she be not with you. And if in the hour when pride, honor, and duty, Shall stir every throb in the hearts of brave men, The wrongs of the helpless can quicken such pulses, Let the captives at Warren give flame to them then. without a "tone. 33 cr0 I LOVED, when a child, to seek the page Where war's proud tales are grandly told, And to read of the might of that former age, In the brave, good days of old ; When men for Virtue and Honor fought In serried ranks, 'neath their banners bright, By the fairy hands of beauty wrought, And broidered with " God and Right" 'Twas there I read of Sir Launcelot true, Whose deeds have been sung in a nobler strain; And of Roderic, the Bold, who his falchion drew, In the cause of his native Spain ; And, in thought, I beheld gay Sidney ride His white plume dotting the field's expanse; And Bayard, who came like the swirl of the tide, As he struck for the lilies of France. On the crags of Scotland then I saw, With his hair of golden hue, Montrose ; And the swarthy Douglas, whose name was law In the homes of his English foes. 34 ^he $et[o without a "Rame, There was Winkelried, in the Swiss-land famed ; And the mountaineers' boast devoted Tell Before whose patriot shaft, well-aimed, His country's tyrant fell. 'JSTeath Erin's flag, with its glad sunburst, Was Emmett, the first in that martyr van, Whose blood makes sacred the gibbet accursed, Where they died for the rights of man. There was Light-Horse Harry, the first in the fray, There was Marion leading his cavaliers And Washington, too, whose grave to-day, Is the shrine of patriot tears. These splendid forms were part of the throng That delighted me, moving in pageant grand, Through the wastes of time and the fields of song, From the legends of every land. But little I hoped myself to see A spirit akin to these stately men ; Or dreamed that great hearts, like theirs, could be In a prison's crowded pen. Yet, I've seen in the wards of the hospital there, A hero, I fancy, as peerless of soul ; without a l^awe. 35 A pale-faced boy, whose home is fair, Where the waters of Cumberland roll. On his narrow cot, in that narrow room, "Where the music he hears is the sigh and the groan, He lies through the day's long pain and gloom, But he never makes a moan ! They hewed him down with their blades of steel, Where the troopers charged from the camp of the foe; But he was not killed although I feel, It would have been better so ; For my heart within me is very sad, As I sit and hold his wasted hand, And hear him tell of the days that were glad, In our own dear, sunny land. There are hours, again, in his fever's heat, When his restless fancies fly to his home : And he talks of the scythe in the falling wheat, And the reapers that go and come ; Of his boyish mates, in their frolicsome glee, In the cedarn glades and the woodlawns dim; And how he carved there on many a tree, A name that was dear to him ; 36 fphe $et|o without a Of the sweet wild roses that scatter the light, Through the open door and the window-pane ; And October's haze, on the far off height And the quiet country lane ; Of the rivulet's plash, and the song of birds, And the corn rows, standing like men with spears ; Of his mother's tones, and her loving words And his cheeks are wet with tears. . And I seem to see her, as autumn leaves Like shadows fall in the lonely glen, And the swallows come home to those silent eaves, Where he shall not come again. And then I rejoice that she can not see, How the blight has stained her fairest bloom; I am glad her footstep will never be Beside his northern tomb. v And I think of another, who watches too, "When the early stars are bright on the hill, ISTor dreams that his heart so confiding and true Will soon be forever still. Ah! many, in vain, to their hopes shall cling, Through the dreary morn and the mournful eve; And memory alone shall its solace bring, To a thousand hearts that grieve. ?f>he $et|o without a "Rame, 37 My comrade will last but a little while ; For I see on every succeeding day, A fainter flush but a sweeter smile Over his features play. And he knows that until he is under the sod, These walls, little better, shall shut him in ; But his soul puts trust in the Lamb of God, That taketh away all sin ! And somehow I think, when our lives are done, That this humble hero without a name Will be greater up there, than many a one Of the high-born, men of fame. And I know I would rather wear to-day, The crown that is his, with its fadeless bloom, Than Roderic's helm, so golden and gay, Or Sidney's snow-Avhite plume! O prisoner boy! that I were as near, As you are now to that "shining shore," Where the waters of life and of love are clear, And weeping shall come no more. It can not be now; yet, in God's own time, When He calls his weary ones home to rest, May I join with you in the angel chime Like you, be a welcome guest ! 38 ^ho (gavalieifa flee. SPUR on! spur on! we love the bounding Of barbs, that bear us to the fray : " TJie charge " our bugles now are sounding And our bold Stuart leads the way ! The path to honor lies before us ; Our hated foemen gather fast ! At home, bright eyes are sparkling for us, And we'll defend them to the last ! Spur on ! spur on ! we love the rushing Of steeds that spurn the turf they tread ; We'll through the northern ranks go crushing, With our proud banner overhead ! The path to honor lies before us, Our hated foemen gather fast ! At home, bright eyes are sparkling for us, And we'll defend them to the last! Spur on ! spur on ! we love the flashing Of blades that battle for the free ! 'Tis for our sunny south they're clashing For household gods and liberty ! ^he (favalietf* he Biveq. 43 Passed ! passed ! the glad thousands march safe through the tide (Hark, despots ! and hear the wild knell of your pride Ringing weird-like and wild pealing up from the side Of the calm flowing River.) 'Neath a blow swift and mighty, the tyrant shall fall! Vain ! vain ! to his God swells the desolate call ! For his grave has been hollowed and woven his pall, As they passed o'er the River. 44 $ ijfoem that nee4$ no $)e4kmtion. %t wttrs WHAT ! ye hold yourselves as freemen ? Tyrants love just such as ye! Go ! abate your lofty manner ! Write upon the State's old banner, "A furore JVbrmanorum, Libera nos, Domine ! " Sink before the Federal altar, Each one, low on bended knee ; Pray, with lips that sob and falter, This prayer from a coward's Psalter: U ^L furore JVbrmanorum, Liber a nos, Domine ! " But ye hold that quick repentance In the Northern mind will be; This repentance comes no sooner Than the robber's did, at Luna. "A furore JSTormanorum^ Liber a nos, Domine ! " 3?oem that needs no dedication. 45 He repented him ; the Bishop Gave him absolution free Poured upon him sacred chrism In the pomp of his baptism. "A furore JVbrmanorum, Libera nos, Domine!" He repented ; then he sickened Was he pining for the sea ? In extremis he was 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 aisle they bore him; " 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. " A furore Normanorum^ Libera nos, Domine ! " 46 $ ilfoem that needs no dedication. Now the Miserere's cadence Takes the voices of the sea; As the music-billows quiver See the dead freebooter shiver ! "A furore N~ormanorum, Libera nos, J)omine ! " Is it that those intonations Thrill him thus, from head to knee ? Lo ! his cerements burst asunder ! 'Tis a sight of fear and wonder ! "A. furore Normanorum, Libera, nos, O Dominel" Fierce he stands before the Bishop Dark as shape of Destinie ! Hark! a shriek ascends appalling! Down the prelate goes dead falling ! "A. furore Nbrmanorum, Libera nos, O JDotnine ! " HASTING lives ! he was but feigning ! What! Repentant? Never he! Down he smites the priests and friars, And the city lights with fires. "^L furore IVbrmanorum, Libera nos, Domine!" & 3?oem that needs no dedication. 47 Ah ! the children and the maidens, 'Tis in vain they strive to flee ! Where the white-haired priests lie bleeding Is no place for tearful pleading, "A. furore JVormanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!" Louder swells the frightful tumult - Pallid death holds revelrie ! Dies the organ's mighty clamor By the Norseman's iron hammer ! "A furore. N~ormanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!" So they thought that he'd repented ! Had they nailed him to a tree, He had not deserved their pity, And they had not lost their city. "A furore Nor manor urn, Libera nos, Dominef" For the moral in this story, Which is plain as truth can be : If we trust the North's relenting, We will shriek, too late repenting, 11 A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Dominef" 48 for HEARD ye that thrilling word Accent of dread ! Fall like a thunderbolt, Bowing each head? Over the battle dun Over each booming gun AsJiby, our bravest one! Ashby is dead! Saw ye the veterans Hearts that had known Never a quail of fear, Never a groan Sob 'mid the fight they win, Tears their stern eyes within? AsTiby, our paladin ! Ashby is dead! Dash, dash the tear away! Crush down the pain ! Dulce et decus be Fittest refrain. 49 Why should the dreary pall Round 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!" Soldier! oh! could there be Paean, or dirge for thee Loftier sung? Bold as the Lion's Heart Dauntless and brave ; Knightly as knightliest Bayard could crave ; 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 50 Crazed in her agony "Weeps o'er his clay ! Ah ! from a thousand eyes Flow the pure tears that rise Widowed VIRGINIA lies Stricken to-day ! Yet, charge as gallantly, Ye whom he led! Jackson, the victor, still Stands at your head ! Heroes ! be battle done, Bravelier every one, Nerved by the thought alone AsJiby is dead! the oung $outh, 51 lk!tr for ifre 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 : "To saints of Heaven was empire given, And WE, alone, are saints /" A preacher to the pulpit comes And calls upon the crowd, For Southern creeds and Southern hopes To weave a bloody shroud. 52 & Ballad foq the oung $outh, 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 ! 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 Americans must kneel as slaves, Till Africans are free! $ Ballad fotj the "^oung $outh. 53 Out on the mere Caucasian blood Of Teuton, Celt, or Gaul ! The stream that springs from Niger's source Must triumph over all !" 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 out-post forced, our sentinels Asleep upon their posts; 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 ! 54 & Ballad foij the oung $outh. Men of the South! Ye have no kin With fanatics, or fools; 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 JBon/tomme, 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 ! 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 passed for platform prate It is the time for swords ! Ballad font the oung $outh. Now, by the fame of JOHN CALHOUN, To honest truth be true ! And by old JACKSON'S iron will, Now do what ye can do! By all ye love by all ye hope Be resolute and proud ; And make your flag a symbol high Of triumph, or a shroud ! Men of the South ! Look up behold The deep and sullen gloom, That darkles o'er our sunny land With thunder in its womb! Are ye so blind ye can not see The omens in the sky? Are ye so deaf ye can not hear The tramp of foemen nigh ? Are ye so dull ye will endure The whips and scorn of men, Who wear the heart of TITUS GATES Beneath the face of PENN ? Never, I ween! and foot to foot, Ye now will gladly stand For land and life, for child and wife, With naked steel in hand ! 56 To the brave all homage render ! Weep, ye skies of June ! With a radiance pure and tender, Shine, oh, saddened moon ! " Dead upon the field of glory ! " Hero fit for song and story Lies our bold dragoon ! Well they learned, whose hands have slain him, Braver, knightlier foe, Never fought 'gainst Moor or Paynim Rode at Templestowe : With a mien how high and joyous, 'Gainst the hordes that would destroy us Went he forth, we know. Never more, alas ! shall sabre Gleam around his crest Fought his fight, fulfilled his labor, Stilled his manly breast All unheard sweet nature's cadence, Trump of fame and voice of maidens, Now he takes his rest. Earth, that all too soon hath bound him, Gently Wrap his clay! Linger lovingly around him, Light of dying day ! Softly fall, ye summer showers Birds and bees, among the flowers Make the gloom seem gay ! Then, throughout the coming ages, When his sword is rust, And his deeds in classic pages Mindful of her trust Shall VIRGINIA, bending lowly, Still a ceaseless vigil holy Keep, above his dust! 58 ff>hei|e'$ >ife in the o)4 >an4 yet, m'a fife m % Ib antr BY blue Patapsco's billowy dash, The tyrant's war-shout comes, Along with the cymbal's fitful clash, And the growl of his sullen drums. We hear it ! we heed it, with vengeful thrills, And we shall not forgive or forget There's faith in the streams, there's hope in the hills "There's life in the Old Land yet!" Minions ! we sleep, but we are not dead ; We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred ; We crouch 'tis to welcome the triumph-tread Of the peerless Beauregard ! Then woe to your vile, polluting horde, When the Southern braves are met ; There's faith in the victor's stainless sword " There's life in the Old Land yet !" Bigots ! ye quell not the valiant mind, With the clank of an iron chain : &ife in the old Land \jet. 59 The Spirit of Freedom sings in the wind, O'er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane ! And we, though we smite not, are not thralls We are piling a gory debt ; E'en down by McHenry's dungeon walls, " There's life in the Old Land yet ! " Our women have hung their harps away, And they scowl on your brutal bands, While the nimble poignard dares the day In their dear, defiant hands ; They will strip their tresses to string our bows, Ere the Northern sun is set ; There's faith in their unrelenting woes "There's life in the Old Land yet!" There's life though it throbbeth in silent veins; 'Tis vocal, without noise ; It gushed o'er Manassas' solemn plains 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's life in the Old Land yet!" 60 $ he fftenneasee Exile's 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 ! Ay, sow the seeds of lasting hate At Johnson's, Hatlin's graves, And do their deeds and dare their fate, Or live the oppres-sors' slaves ! Bleed freely, as you bled of yore, In every well-fought field, Press round the flag you always bore The foremost as a shield I feel her pulse beat high and quick, Her sinews stretch for strife, Full come her heart-throbs deep and thick, She kindles into life! 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! 's 3Dat[img. 67 INTO a ward of the whitewashed walls 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 still on his pale, sweet face Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. Matted and damp are the curls of gold, Kissing the snow of that fair young brow ; Pale are the lips of delicate mould Somebody's darling is dying now. Back from the beautiful, blue-veined face Brush every wandering, silken thread ; Cross his hands as a sign of grace Somebody's darling is still and dead ! Kiss him once for somebody's sake ; Murmur a prayer, soft and low ; One bright curl from the cluster take They were somebody's pride, you know. 68 Somebody's hand hath rested there ; Was it a mother's, soft and white ? And have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in those waves of light ? God knows best. He was somebody's love ; Somebody's heart enshrined him here ; Somebody wafted his name above, Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave and grand ; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay ; Somebody clung to his parting hand Somebody's watching and waiting for him, Yearning to hold him again to her heart : There he lies with the blue eyes dim, And smiling, child-like lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead, Pausing to drop on his grave a tear, Carve on the wooden slab at his head, " Somebody's darling lies buried here ! " on ach$on. 69 AY, toll ! .toll ! toll ! Toll the funeral bell! So let its mournful echoes roll From sphere to sphere, from pole to pole, O'er the flight of the greatest, kingliest soul That ever in battle fell. Yes, weep ! weep ! weep ! Weep for the hero fled ! For Death, the greatest of soldiers, at last Has o'er our leader his black pall cast. From earth his noble form hath passed To the home of the mighty dead. Then toll ! and weep ! and mourn ! Mourn the fall of the brave ! For Jackson, whose deeds made the nation proud, Whose very n.ame was a war-song loud, With the " crimson cross " for his martial shroud Now sleeps his long sleep in the grave. on 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 can 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 foeman poured, He dropped from his nerveless grasp the sword That erst was the nation's pride. Virginia, his mother, is bowed; Her eyelids heavy and low. From all the South comes the wailing moan, And mountain and valley reecho the groan, For the gallant chief of her clans has flown The nation is filled with woe. Rest, warrior ! rest ! Rest in thy laureled tomb ! Thy mem'ry shall live to earth's latest years, Thy name shall still raise the despot's fears, While over thee falls a nation's tears ; Thy deeds shall not perish in gloom! (fJoeijcion, 71 (foertbn : A POEM FOR THEN. AND NOW. 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 the wave of the sea ! Who prates of Coercion ? can love be restored To bosoms where only resentment may dwell ? Can peace on earth be proclaimed by the sword, Or good-will among men be established by shell ? Shame ! shame ! that the statesman and trickster, forsooth, Should have for a crisis no other recourse, Beneath the fair day-spring of light and of truth, Than the old brutum fulmen of tyranny, force ! From the holes where Fraud, Falsehood, and Hate slink away ; From the crypt in which Error lies buried in chains ; ?2 (ftoetjcion, This foul apparition stalks forth to the day, And would ravage the land which his presence profanes. Could you conquer us, Men of the North could you bring Desolation and death on our homes as a flood Can you hope the pure lily, Affection, will spring From ashes all reeking and sodden with blood? Could you brand us as villains 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, RESISTANCE, shall leap from his lair, With a fury that renders his vengeance sublime. 73 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 des troy, 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 The men upon whom you have already 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; 74 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, the 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 King's Mountain shall heave at the blast, And give up its heroes to glory again. Mai}~(f}ht{i$tian'$ ^hanhagiving, 75 Ifer-Cfmstimt's RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THE WAR-CLERGY OP THE UNITED STATES, BISHOPS, PRIESTS, AND DEACONS. Cursed be he that doeth the work of the Lord negligently, and cursed be he that keepeth back his sword from blood. Jeremiah 48 : 10. O 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 brothers' 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 : In every groan that yields a soul, Each shriek a heart that rends f|>h 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, for evermore. We know that wisdom, truth, and right To us and ours are given That thou hast clothed us with the wrath To do the work of Heaven. We know that plains and cities waste Are pleasant in Thine eyes; 77 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 ! 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! 78 Virginians of the JJirgmxmts 0f % SIG JURAT. 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 hated ease, Who rode with Smith around the land And Raleigh round the seas! Who climbed the blue Virginia hills, Amid embattled foes, And planted there, in valleys fair, The lily and the rose ; Whose fragrance lives in many lands, Whose beauty stars the earth, And lights the hearths of many homes With loveliness and worth! We thought they slept ! these sons who kept The names of noble sires, of the Vallevj. 79 And slumbered, while the darkness crept Around their vigil fires ! But still the Golden Horse-shoe knights, Their Old Dominion keep, Whose foes have found enchanted ground, But not a knight asleep! 80 ?ha Kallaa of the Bight rf % gifl(jt. IN other days our fathers' love was loyal, full, and free, For those they left behind them, on the Island of the Sea ; They fought the battles of King George and toasted him in song For then the Right kept proudly down the tyranny of Wrong. But when the King's weak, willing slaves laid tax upon the tea, The western men rose up and braved the Island of the Sea; And swore a solemn oath to God, those men of iron might That at their hands the Wrong should die and up should go the Right! The King sent over hireling hosts Briton, Hessian, Scot And swore in turn those Western men, when cap tured, should be shot; Ballad of the BiHt 81 While Chatham spoke with earnest tongue against the hireling throng, And mournful saw the Right go down, and place give to the Wrong. But God was on the righteous side, and Gideon's sword was out, With clash of steel, and rattling drum, and freeman's thunder-shout ; And crimson torrents drenched the land through that long, stormy fight, But in the end, hurrah! the Wrong was beaten by the Right ! And when again the foemen came from out the Northern Sea, To desolate our smiling land and subjugate the free, Our fathers rushed to drive them back, with rifles keen and long, And swore a mighty oath the Right should subju gate the Wrong. And while the world was looking on, the strife un certain grew, But soon al sft rose up our stars amid a field of blue ; 82 he Ballad of tho For Jackson fought on red Chalmette, and won tLe glorious fight, And then the Wrong went down, hurrah ! and triumph crowned the Right! The day has come again, when all who love the beauteous South, Must speak, if needs be, for the Right, though by the cannon's mouth; For foes accursed of God and man, with lying speech and song, Would bind, imprison, hang the Right, and deify the Wrong. But canting knave of pen and sword, or sanctimo nious fool, Shall never win this Southern land, to cripple, bind, and rule; We'll muster on each bloody plain, thick as the stars of night, And, through the help of God, the Wrong shall perish by the Right. 83 IfolKtoffer* FIKST in the fight, and first in the arms Of the white-winged angels of glory, With the heart of the South at the feet of God, And his wounds to tell the story; 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 immortal voice: DEAD ON THE FIELD OF GLORY! 84 & m