No breeze of battle ever fanned_War Poetry of the South

The colors of that tender band;

Its office is beside the bed,

Where throbs some sick or wounded head.

It does not court the soldier's tomb,

But plies the needle and the loom;

And, by a thousand peaceful deeds,

Supplies a struggling nation's needs.

Nor is that army's gentle might

Unfelt amid the deadly fight;

It nerves the son's, the husband's hand,

It points the lover's fearless brand;

It thrills the languid, warms the cold,

Gives even new courage to the bold;

And sometimes lifts the veriest clod

To its own lofty trust in God.

When Heaven shall blow the trump of peace,

And bid this weary warfare cease,

Their several missions nobly done,

The triumph grasped, and freedom won,

Both armies, from their toils at rest,

Alike may claim the victor's crest,

But each shall see its dearest prize

Gleam softly from the other's eyes.

The Legion of Honor.

By H.L. Flash.

Why are we forever speaking

Of the warriors of old?

Men are fighting all around us,

Full as noble, full as bold.

Ever working, ever striving,

Mind and muscle, heart and soul,

With the reins of judgment keeping

Passions under full control.

Noble hearts are beating boldly

As they ever did on earth;

Swordless heroes are around us,

Striving ever from their birth.

Tearing down the old abuses,

Building up the purer laws,

Scattering the dust of ages,

Searching out the hidden flaws.

Acknowledging no "right divine"

In kings and princes from the rest;

In their creed he is the noblest

Who has worked and striven best.

Decorations do not tempt them--

Diamond stars they laugh to scorn--

Each will wear a "Cross of Honor"

On the Resurrection morn.

Warriors they in fields of wisdom--

Like the noble Hebrew youth,

Striking down Goliath's error

With the God-blessed stone of truth.

Marshalled 'neath the Right's broad banner,

Forward rush these volunteers,

Beating olden wrong away

From the fast advancing years.

Contemporaries do not see them,

But the _coming_ times will say

(Speaking of the slandered present),

"There were heroes in that day."

Why are we then idly lying

On the roses of our life,

While the noble-hearted struggle

In the world-redeeming strife.

Let us rise and join the legion,

Ever foremost in the fray--

Battling in the name of Progress

For the nobler, purer day.

Clouds in the West.

By A. J. Requier, of Alabama.

Hark! on the wind that whistles from the West

A manly shout for instant succor comes,

From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast,

With rage-indented drums!

Who dare for child, wife, country--stream and strand,

Though but a fraction to the swarming foe,

There--at the flooded gateways of the land,

To stem a torrent's flow.

To arms! brave sons of each embattled State,

Whose queenly standard is a Southern star:

Who would be free must ride the lists of Fate

On Freedom's victor-car!

Forsake the field, the shop, the mart, the hum

Of craven traffic for the mustering clan:

The dead themselves are pledged that you shall come

And prove yourself--a man.

That sacred turf where first a thrilling grief

Was felt which taught you Heaven alone disposes--

God! can you live to see a foreign thief

Contaminate its roses?

Blow, summoning trumpets, a compulsive stave

Through all the bounds, from Beersheba to Dan;

Come out! come out! who scorns to be a slave,

Or claims to be a man!

Hark! on the breezes whistling from the West

A manly shout for instant succor comes,

From men who fight, outnumbered, breast to breast.

With rage-indented drums!

Who charge and cheer amid the murderous din,

Where still your battle-flags unbended wave,

Dying for what your fathers died to win

And you must fight to save.

Ho! shrilly fifes that stir the vales from sleep,

Ho! brazen thunders from the mountains hoar;

The very waves are marshalling on the deep,

While tempests tread the shore.

Arise and swear, your palm-engirdled land

Shall burial only yield a bandit foe;

Then spring upon the caitiffs, steel in hand,

And strike the fated blow.

Georgia, My Georgia!

By Carrie Bell Sinclair.

Hark! 'tis the cannon's deafening roar,

That sounds along thy sunny shore,

And thou shalt lie in chains no more,

My wounded, bleeding Georgia!

Then arm each youth and patriot sire,

Light up the patriotic fire,

And bid the zeal of those ne'er tire,

Who strike for thee, my Georgia

On thee is laid oppression's hand,

Around thy altars foemen stand,

To scatter freedom's gallant band,

And lay thee low, my Georgia!

But thou hast noble sons, and brave,

The Stars and Bars above thee wave,

And here we'll make oppression's grave,

Upon the soil of Georgia!

We bow at Liberty's fair shrine,

And kneel in holy love at thine,

And while above our stars still shine,

We'll strike for them and Georgia!

Thy woods with victory shall resound,

Thy brow shall be with laurels crowned,

And peace shall spread her wings around

My own, my sunny Georgia!

Yes, these shall teach thy foes to feel

That Southern hearts, and Southern steel,

Will make them in submission kneel

Before the sons of Georgia!

And thou shalt see thy daughters, too,

With pride and patriotism true,

Arise with strength to dare and do,

Ere they shall conquer Georgia.

Thy name shall be a name of pride--

Thy heroes all have nobly died,

That thou mayst be the spotless bride

Of Liberty, my Georgia!

Then wave thy sword and banner high,

And louder raise the battle-cry,

'Till shouts of victory reach the sky,

And thou art free, my Georgia!

Song of the Texas Rangers.

Air--_The Yellow Rose of Texas_.

The morning star is paling,

The camp-fires flicker low,

Our steeds are madly neighing,

For the bugle bids us go.

So put the foot in stirrup,

And shake the bridle free,

For to-day the Texas Rangers

Must cross the Tennessee,

With Wharton for our leader,

We'll chase the dastard foe,

Till our horses bathe their fetlocks

In the deep blue Ohio.

Our men are from the prairies,

That roll broad and proud and free,

From the high and craggy mountains

To the murmuring Mexic' sea;

And their hearts are open as their plains,

Their thoughts as proudly brave

As the bold cliffs of the San Bernard,

Or the Gulf's resistless wave.

Then quick! into the saddle,

And shake the bridle free,

To-day, with gallant Wharton,

We cross the Tennessee.

'Tis joy to be a Ranger!

To fight for dear Southland;

'Tis joy to follow Wharton,

With his gallant, trusty band!

'Tis joy to see our Harrison,

Plunge like a meteor bright

Into the thickest of the fray,

And deal his deathly might.

Oh! who'd not be a Ranger,

And follow Wharton's cry!

To battle for his country--

And, if it needs be--die!

By the Colorado's waters,

On the Gulf's deep murmuring shore,

On our soft green peaceful prairies

Are the homes we may see no more;

But in those homes our gentle wives,

And mothers with silv'ry hairs,

Are loving us with tender hearts,

And shielding us with prayers.

So, trusting in our country's God,

We draw our stout, good brand,

For those we love at home,

Our altars and our land.

Up, up with the crimson battle-flag--

Let the blue pennon fly;

Our steeds are stamping proudly--

They hear the battle-cry!

The thundering bomb, the bugle's call,

Proclaim the foe is near;

We strike for God and native land,

And all we hold most dear.

Then spring into the saddle,

And shake the bridle free--

For Wharton leads, through fire and blood,

For Home and Victory!

Kentucky Required to Yield Her Arms.

By----Boone.

Ho! will the despot trifle,

In dwellings of the free;

Kentuckians yield the rifle,

Kentuckians bend the knee!

With dastard fear of danger,

And trembling at the strife;

Kentucky, to the stranger,

Yield liberty for life!

Up! up! each gallant ranger,

With rifle and with knife!

The bastard and the traitor,

The wolfcub and the snake,

The robber, swindler, hater,

Are in your homes--awake!

Nor let the cunning foeman

Despoil your liberty;

Yield weapon up to no man,

While ye can strike and see,

Awake, each gallant yeoman,

If still ye would be free!

Aye, see to sight the rifle,

And smite with spear and knife,

Let no base cunning stifle

Each lesson of your life:

How won your gallant sires

The country which ye keep?

By soul, which still inspires

The soil on which ye weep!

Leap up! their spirit fires,

And rouse ye from your sleep!

"What!" cry the sires so famous,

In Orleans' ancient field,

"Will ye, our children, shame us,

And to the despot yield?

What! each brave lesson stifle

We left to give you life?

Let apish despots trifle

With home and child and wife?

And yield, O shame! the rifle,

And sheathe, O shame! the knife?"

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

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

By blue Patapsco's billowy dash

The tyrant's war-shout comes,

Along with the cymbal's fitful clash

And the growl of his sullen drums;

We hear it, we heed it, with vengeful thrills,

And we shall not forgive or forget--

There's faith in the streams, there's hope in the hills,

"There's life in the Old Land yet!"

Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead,

We are crushed, we are scourged, we are scarred--

We crouch--'tis to welcome the triumph-tread

Of the peerless Beauregard.

Then woe to your vile, polluting horde,

When the Southern braves are met;

There's faith in the victor's stainless sword,

"There's life in the Old Land yet!"

Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind

With the clank of an iron chain;

The spirit of Freedom sings in the wind

O'er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane;

And we--though we smite not--are not thralls,

We are piling a gory debt;

While down by McHenry's dungeon walls

"There's life in the Old Land yet!"

Our women, have hung their harps away

And they scowl on your brutal bands,

While the nimble poignard dares the day

In their dear defiant hands;

They will strip their tresses to string our bows

Ere the Northern sun is set--

There's faith in their unrelenting woes--

"There's life in the Old Land yet!"

There's life, though it throbbeth in silent veins,

'Tis vocal without noise;

It gushed o'er Manassas' solemn plains

From the blood of the Maryland boys.

That blood shall cry aloud and rise

With an everlasting threat--

By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies,

"There's life in the Old Land yet!"

Tell the Boys the War Is Ended.

By Emily J. Moore.

While in the first ward of the Quintard Hospital, Rome, Georgia, a young

soldier from the Eighth Arkansas Begiment, who had been wounded at

Murfreesboro', called me to his bedside. As I approached I saw that he was

dying, and when I bent over him he was just able to whisper, "Tell the

boys the war is ended."

"Tell the boys the war is ended,"

These were all the words he said;

"Tell the boys the war is ended,"

In an instant more was dead.

Strangely bright, serene, and cheerful

Was the smile upon his face,

While the pain, of late so fearful,

Had not left the slightest trace.

"Tell the boys the war is ended,"

And with heavenly visions bright

Thoughts of comrades loved were blended,

As his spirit took its flight.

"Tell the boys the war is ended,"

"Grant, 0 God, it may be so,"

Was the prayer which then ascended,

In a whisper deep, though low.

"Tell the boys the war is ended,"

And his warfare then was o'er,

As, by angel bands attended,

He departed from earth's shore.

Bursting shells and cannons roaring

Could not rouse him by their din;

He to better worlds was soaring,

Far from war, and pain, and sin.

"The Southern Cross."

By St. George Tucker, of Virginia.

Oh! say can you see, through the gloom and the storm,

More bright for the darkness, that pure constellation?

Like the symbol of love and redemption its form,

As it points to the haven of hope for the nation.

How radiant each star, as the beacon afar,

Giving promise of peace, or assurance in war!

'Tis the Cross of the South, which shall ever remain

To light us to freedom and glory again!

How peaceful and blest was America's soil,

'Till betrayed by the guile of the Puritan demon,

Which lurks under virtue, and springs from its coil

To fasten its fangs in the life-blood of freemen.

Then boldly appeal to each heart that can feel,

And crush the foul viper 'neath Liberty's heel!

And the Cross of the South shall in triumph remain,

To light us to freedom and glory again!

'Tis the emblem of peace,'tis the day-star of hope,

Like the sacred _Labarum_ that guided the Roman;

From the shores of the Gulf to the Delaware's slope,

'Tis the trust of the free and the terror of foemen.

Fling its folds to the air, while we boldly declare

The rights we demand or the deeds that we dare!

While the Cross of the South shall in triumph remain,

To light us to freedom and glory again!

And if peace should be hopeless and justice denied,

And war's bloody vulture should flap its black pinions,

Then gladly "to arms," while we hurl, in our pride,

Defiance to tyrants and death to their minions!

With our front in the field, swearing never to yield,

Or return, like the Spartan, in death on our shield!

And the Cross of the South shall triumphantly wave,

As the flag of the free or the pall of the brave!

Southern Literary Messenger.

England's Neutrality.

A Parliamentary Debate.

By John R. Thompson, of Richmond, Virginia.

All ye who with credulity the whispers hear of fancy,

Or yet pursue with eagerness hope's wild extravagancy,

Who dream that England soon will drop her long miscalled neutrality,

And give us, with a hearty shake, the hand of nationality,

Read, as we give, with little fault of statement or omission,

The _next_ debate in parliament on Southern Recognition;

They're all so much alike, indeed, that one can write it off, I see,

As truly as the _Times_' report, without the gift of prophecy.

Not yet, not yet to interfere does England see occasion,

But treats our good commissioner with coolness and evasion;

Such coolness in the premises, that really 'tis refrigerant

To think that two long years ago she called us a belligerent.

But, further, Downing-street is dumb, the premier deaf to reason,

As deaf as is the _Morning Post_, both in and out of season;

The working men of Lancashire are all reduced to beggary,

And yet they will not listen unto Roebuck or to Gregory,

"Or any other man," to-day, who counsels interfering,

While all who speak on t'other side obtain a ready hearing--

As, _par exemple_, Mr. Bright, that pink of all propriety,

That meek and mild disciple of the blessed Peace Society.

"Why, let 'em fight," says Mr. Bright, "those Southerners, I hate 'em,

And hope the Black Republicans will soon exterminate 'em;

If freedom can't rebellion crush, pray tell me what's the use of her?"

And so he chuckles o'er the fray as gleefully as Lucifer.

Enough of him--an abler man demands our close attention--

The Maximus Apollo of strict _non_-intervention--

With pitiless severity, though decorous and calm his tone,

Thus spake the "old man eloquent," the puissant Earl of Palmerston:

"What though the land run red with blood, what though the lurid flashes

Of cannon light, at dead of night, a mournful heap of ashes

Where many an ancient mansion stood--what though the robber pillages

The sacred home, the house of God, in twice a hundred villages.

"What though a fiendish, nameless wrong, that makes revenge a duty,

Is daily done" (O Lord, how long!) "to tenderness and beauty!"

(And who shall tell this deed of hell, how deadlier far a curse it is

Than even pulling temples down and burning universities)?

"Let arts decay, let millions fall, aye, let freedom perish,

With all that in the western world men fain would love and cherish;

Let universal ruin there become a sad reality:

We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous neutrality."

Oh, Pam! oh, Pam! hast ever read what's writ in holy pages,

How blessed the peace-makers are, God's children of the ages?

Perhaps you think the promise sweet was nothing but a platitude;

'Tis clear that _you_ have no concern in that divine beatitude.

But "hear! hear! hear!" another peer, that mighty man of muscle,

Is on his legs, what slender pegs! "ye noble Earl" of Russell;

Thus might he speak, did not of speech his shrewd reserve the folly see,

And thus unfold the subtle plan of England's secret policy.

"John Bright was right, yes, let 'em fight, these fools across the water,

'Tis no affair at all of ours, their carnival of slaughter;

The Christian world, indeed, may say we ought not to allow it, sirs,

But still 'tis music in our ears, this roar of Yankee howitzers.

"A word or two of sympathy, that costs us not a penny,

We give the gallant Southerners, the few against the many;

We say their noble fortitude of final triumph presages,

And praise, in Blackwood's Magazine, Jeff. Davis and his messages.

"Of course we claim the shining fame of glorious Stonewall Jackson,

Who typifies the English race, a sterling Anglo-Saxon;

To bravest song his deeds belong, to Clio and Melpomene"--

(And why not for a British stream demand the Chickahominy?)

"But for the cause in which he fell we cannot lift a finger,

'Tis idle on the question any longer here to linger;

'Tis true the South has freely bled, her sorrows are Homeric, oh!

Her case is like to his of old who journeyed unto Jericho.

"The thieves have stripped and bruised, although as yet they have not

bound her,

We'd like to see her slay 'em all to right and left around her;

We shouldn't cry in parliament if Lee should cross the Raritan,

But England never yet was known to play the Good Samaritan.

"And so we pass the other side, and leave them to their glory,

To give new proofs of manliness, new scenes for song and story;

These honeyed words of compliment may possibly bamboozle 'em,

But ere we intervene, you know, we'll see 'em in--Jerusalem.

"Yes, let 'em fight, till both are brought to hopeless desolation,

Till wolves troop round the cottage door in one and t'other nation,

Till, worn and broken down, the South shall prove no more refractory,

And rust eats up the silent looms of every Yankee factory.

"Till bursts no more the cotton boll o'er fields of Carolina,

And fills with snowy flosses the dusky hands of Dinah;

Till war has dealt its final blow, and Mr. Seward's knavery

Has put an end in all the land to freedom and to slavery.

"The grim Bastile, the rack, the wheel, without remorse or pity,

May flourish with the guillotine in every Yankee city;

No matter should old Abe revive the brazen bull of Phalaris,

'Tis no concern at all of ours"--(sensation in the galleries.)

"So shall our 'merry England' thrive on trans-Atlantic troubles,

While India, on her distant plains, her crop of cotton doubles;

And just so long as North or South shall show the least vitality,

We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous neutrality."

Your speech, my lord, might well become a Saxon legislator,

When the "fine old English gentleman" lived in a state of natur',

When Vikings quaffed from human skulls their fiery draughts of honey mead,

Long, long before the barons bold met tyrant John at Runnymede.

But 'tis a speech so plain, my lord, that all may understand it,

And so we quickly turn again to fight the Yankee bandit,

Convinced that we shall fairly win at last our nationality,

Without the help of Britain's arm, _in spite of_ her neutrality.

Illustrated News.

Close the Ranks.

By John L. O'Sullivan.

The fell invader is before!