Two thousand years of Ohrist; yet from such roots,
Immortal, earth reaps only bitterest fruits!
The fiends rage now as when they first began!
Hate, Lust, Greed, Vanity, triumphant still,
Yell, shout, exult, and lord o'er human will!
The sun moves back! The fond convictions felt,
That, in the progress of the race, we stood,
Two thousand years of height above the flood
Before the day's experience sink and melt,
As frost beneath the fire! and what remains
Of all our grand ideals and great gains,
With Goth, Hun, Vandal, warring in their pride,
While the meek Christ is hourly crucified!
Pax.
"Stonewall" Jackson's Way.
These verses, according to the newspaper account, _may_ have been
found in the bosom of a dead rebel, after one of Jackson's battles in the
Shenandoah valley; but we are pleased to state that the _author_ of
them is a still living rebel, and able to write even better things.
Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails;
Stir up the camp-fire bright;
No matter if the canteen fails,
We'll make a roaring night.
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
Here burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
To swell the brigade's rousing song,
Of "Stonewall Jackson's way."
We see him now--the old slouched hat
Cocked o'er his eye askew--
The shrewd dry smile--the speech so pat,
So calm, so blunt, so true.
The "Blue Light Elder" knows 'em well:
Says he, "That's Banks; he's fond of shell.
Lord save his soul! we'll give him ----" well
That's "Stonewall Jackson's way."
Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Caps off!
Old "Blue Light's" going to pray.
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!
Attention! it's his way!
Appealing from his native sod
_In forma pauperis_ to God,
"Lay bare thine arm! Stretch forth thy rod!
Amen!" That's Stonewall's way.
He's in the saddle now: Fall in!
Steady! The whole brigade!
Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win
His way out, ball and blade.
What matter if our shoes are worn?
What matter if our feet are torn?
Quick step! we're with him before dawn!
That's Stonewall Jackson's way!
The sun's bright lances rout the mists
Of morning--and, by George!
Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge.
Pope and his Yankees, whipped before:
"Bayonets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar;
"Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score,
In Stonewall Jackson's way!"
Ah, maiden! wait, and watch, and yearn,
For news of Stonewall's band!
Ah, widow! read--with eyes that burn,
That ring upon thy hand!
Ah! wife, sew on, pray on, hope on:
Thy life shall not be all forlorn.
The foe had better ne'er been born,
That gets in Stonewall's way.
The Silent March.
On one occasion during the war in Virginia, General Lee was lying asleep
by the wayside, when an army of fifteen thousand men passed by with hushed
voices and footsteps, lest they should disturb his slumbers.
O'ercome with weariness and care,
The war-worn veteran lay
On the green turf of his native land,
And slumbered by the way;
The breeze that sighed across his brow,
And smoothed its deepened lines,
Fresh from his own loved mountain bore
The murmur of their pines;
And the glad sound of waters,
The blue rejoicing streams,
Whose sweet familiar tones were blent
With the music of his dreams:
They brought no sound of battle's din,
Shrill fife or clarion,
But only tenderest memories
Of his own fair Arlington.
While thus the chieftain slumbered,
Forgetful of his care,
The hollow tramp of thousands
Came sounding through the air.
With ringing spur and sabre,
And trampling feet they come,
Gay plume and rustling banner,
And fife, and trump, and drum;
But soon the foremost column
Sees where, beneath the shade,
In slumber, calm as childhood,
Their wearied chief is laid;
And down the line a murmur
From lip to lip there ran,
Until the stilly whisper
Had spread to rear from van;
And o'er the host a silence
As deep and sudden fell,
As though some mighty wizard
Had hushed them with a spell;
And every sound was muffled,
And every soldier's tread
Fell lightly as a mother's
'Round her baby's cradle-bed;
And rank, and file, and column,
So softly by they swept,
It seemed a ghostly army
Had passed him as he slept;
But mightier than enchantment
Was that with magic move--
The spell that hushed their voices--
Deep reverence and love.
Pro Memoria.
Air--There is rest for the weary.
By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama.
Lo! the Southland Queen, emerging
From her sad and wintry gloom,
Robes her torn and bleeding bosom
In her richest orient bloom:
CHORUS.--(Repeat first line three times.)
For her weary sons are resting
By the Edenshore;
They have won the crown immortal,
And the cross of death is o'er!
Where the Oriflamme is burning
On the starlit Edenshore!
Brightly still, in gorgeous glory,
God's great jewel lights our sky;
Look! upon the heart's white dial
There's a SHADOW flitting by!
CHORUS.--But the weary feet are resting, etc.
Homes are dark and hearts are weary,
Souls are numb with hopeless pain;
For the footfall on the threshold
Never more to sound again!
CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever,
Aye, for evermore!
We must win the crown immortal,
Follow where they led before,
Where the Oriflamme is burning
On the starlit Edenshore.
Proudly, as our Southern forests
Meet the winter's shafts so keen:
Time-defying memories cluster
Round our hearts in living green.
CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.
May our faltering voices mingle
In the angel-chanted psalm;
May our earthly chaplets linger
By the bright celestial palm.
CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.
Crest to crest they bore our banner,
Side by side they fell asleep;
Hand in hand we scatter flowers,
Heart to heart we kneel and weep!
CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.
When the May eternal dawneth
At the living God's behest,
We will quaff divine Nepenthe,
We will share the Soldier's rest.
CHORUS.--Where the weary feet are resting, etc.
Where the shadows are uplifted
'Neath the never-waning sun,
Shout we, Gloria in Excelsis!
We have lost, but ye have won!
CHORUS.--Our hearts are yours forever,
Aye, for evermore!
Ye have won the crown immortal,
And the cross of death is o'er,
Where the Oriflamme is burning
On the starlit Edenshore!
The Southern Homes in Ruin.
By R. B. Vance, of North Carolina.
"We know a great deal about war now; but, dear readers, the Southern
women know more. Blood has not dripped on our doorsills yet; shells have
not burst above our _homesteads_--let us pray they never may."
--_Frank Leslie's Illustrated_.
Many a gray-haired sire has died,
As falls the oak, to rise no more,
Because his son, his prop, his pride,
Breathed out his last all red with gore.
No more on earth, at morn, at eve,
Shall age and youth, entwined as one--
Nor father, son, for either grieve--
Life's work, alas, for both is done!
Many a mother's heart has bled
While gazing on her darling child,
As in its tiny eyes she read
The father's image, kind and mild;
For ne'er again his voice will cheer
The widowed heart, which mourns him dead;
Nor kisses dry the scalding tear,
Fast falling on the orphan's head!
Many a little form will stray
Adown the glen and o'er the hill,
And watch, with wistful looks, the way
For him whose step is missing still;
And when the twilight steals apace
O'er mead, and brook, and lonely home,
And shadows cloud the dear, sweet face--
The cry will be, "Oh, papa, come!"
And many a home's in ashes now,
Where joy was once a constant guest,
And mournful groups there are, I trow,
With neither house nor place of rest;
And blood is on the broken _sill_,
Where happy feet went to and fro,
And everywhere, by field and hill,
Are sickening sights and sounds of woe!
There is a God who rules on high,
The widow's and the orphan's friend,
Who sees each tear and hears each sigh,
That these lone hearts to Him may send!
And when in wrath He tears away
The reasons vain which men indite,
The record book will plainest say
Who's in the wrong, and who is right.
"Rappahannock Army Song."
By John C. M'Lemore.
The toil of the march is over--
The pack will be borne no more--
For we've come for the help of Richmond,
From the Rappahannock's shore.
The foe is closing round us--
We can hear his ravening cry;
So, ho! for fair old Richmond!
Like soldiers we'll do or die.
We have left the land that bore us,
Full many a league away,
And our mothers and sisters miss us,
As with tearful eyes they pray;
But _this_ will repress their weeping,
And still the rising sigh--
For all, for fair old Richmond,
Have come to do or die.
We have come to join our brothers
From the proud Dominion's vales,
And to meet the dark-cheeked soldier,
Tanned by the Tropic gales;
To greet them all full gladly,
With hand and beaming eye,
And to swear, for fair old Richmond,
We all will do or die.
The fair Carolina sisters
Stand ready, lance in hand,
To fight as they did in an older war,
For the sake of their fatherland.
The glories of Sumter and Bethel
Have raised their fame full high,
But they'll fade, if for fair old Richmond
They swear not to do or die.
Zollicoffer looks down on his people,
And trusts to their hearts and arms,
To avenge the blood he has shed,
In the midst of the battle's alarms.
Alabamians, remember the past,
Be the "South at Manassas," their cry;
As onward for fair old Richmond,
They marched to do or die.
Brave Bartow, from home on high,
Calls the Empire State to the front,
To bear once more as she has borne
With glory the battle's brunt.
Mississippians who know no surrender,
Bear the flag of the Chief on high;
For he, too, for fair old Richmond,
Has sworn to do or die.
Fair land of my birth--sweet Florida--
Your arm is weak, but your soul
Must tell of a purer, holier strength,
When the drums for the battle roll.
Look within, for your hope in the combat,
Nor think of your few with a sigh--
If you win not for fair old Richmond,
At least you can bravely die.
Onward all! Oh! band of brothers!
The beat of the long roll's heard!
And the hearts of the columns advancing,
By the sound of its music is stirred.
Onward all! and never return,
Till our foes from the Borders fly--
To be crowned by the fair of old Richmond,
As those who could do or die.
Richmond Enquirer.
The Soldier in the Rain.
By Julia L. Keyes.
Ah me! the rain has a sadder sound
Than it ever had before;
And the wind more plaintively whistles through
The crevices of the door.
We know we are safe beneath our roof
From every drop that falls;
And we feel secure and blest, within
The shelter of our walls.
Then why do we dread to hear the noise
Of the rapid, rushing rain--
And the plash of the wintry drops, that beat
Through the blinds, on the window-pane?
We think of the tents on the lowly ground,
Where our patriot soldiers lie;
And the sentry's bleak and lonely march,
'Neath the dark and starless sky.
And we pray, with a tearful heart, for those
Who brave for us yet more--
And we wish this war, with its thousand ills
And griefs, was only o'er.
We pray when the skies are bright and clear,
When the winds are soft and warm--
But oh! we pray with an aching heart
'Mid the winter's rain and storm.
We fain would lift these mantling clouds
That shadow our sunny clime;
We can but wait--for we know there'll be
A day, in the coming time,
When peace, like a rosy dawn, will flood
Our land with softest light:
Then--we will scarcely hearken the rain
In the dreary winter's night.
My Country.
By W. D. Porter, S. C.
I.
Go, read the stories of the great and free,
The nations on the long, bright roll of fame,
Whose noble rage has baffled the decree
Of tyrants to despoil their life and name;
II.
Whose swords have flashed like lightning in the eyes
Of robber despots, glorying in their might,
And taught the world, by deeds of high emprise,
The power of truth and sacredness of right:
III.
Whose people, strong to suffer and endure,
In faith have wrestled till the blessing came,
And won through woes a victory doubly sure,
As martyr wins his crown through blood and flame.
IV.
The purest virtue has been sorest tried,
Nor is there glory without patient toil;
And he who woos fair Freedom for his bride,
Through suffering must be purged of stain and soil.
V.
My country! in this hour of trial sore,
When in the balance trembling hangs thy fate,
Brace thy great heart with courage to the core,
Nor let one jot of faith or hope abate!
IV.
The world's bright eye is fixed upon thee still;
_Life, honor, fame_--these all are in the scale:
_Endure! endure! endure!_ with iron will,
And by the truth of heaven, thou shalt not fail!
Patriot and Mountaineer.
"After the Battle."
By Miss Agnes Leonard.
I.
All day long the sun had wandered,
Through the slowly creeping hours,
And at last the stars were shining
Like some golden-petalled flowers
Scattered o'er the azure bosom
Of the glory-haunted night,
Flooding all the sky with grandeur,
Filling all the earth with light.
II.
And the fair moon, with the sweet stars,
Gleamed amid the radiant spheres
Like "a pearl of great price" shining
Just as it had shone for years,
On the young land that had risen,
In her beauty and her might,
Like some gorgeous superstructure
Woven in the dreams of night:
III.
With her "cities hung like jewels"
On her green and peaceful breast,
With her harvest fields of plenty,
And her quiet homes of rest.
But a change had fallen sadly
O'er the young and beauteous land,
Brothers on the field fought madly
That once wandered hand in hand.
IV.
And "the hearts of distant mountains
Shuddered," with a fearful wonder,
As the echoes burst upon them
Of the cannon's awful thunder.
Through the long hours waged the battle
Till the setting of the sun
Dropped a seal upon the record,
That the day's mad work was done.
V.
Thickly on the trampled grasses
Lay the battle's awful traces,
'Mid the blood-stained clover-blossoms
Lay the stark and ghastly faces,
With no mourners bending downward
O'er a costly funeral pall;
And the dying daylight softly,
With the starlight watched o'er all.
VI.
And, where eager, joyous footsteps
Once perchance were wont to pass,
Ran a little streamlet making
One "blue fold in the dark grass;"
And where, from its hidden fountain,
Clear and bright the brooklet burst
Two had crawled, and each was bending
O'er to slake his burning thirst.
VII.
Then beneath the solemn starlight
Of the radiant jewelled skies,
Both had turned, and were intently
Gazing in each other's eyes.
Both were solemnly forgiving--
Hushed the pulse of passion's breath--
Calmed the maddening thirst for battle,
By the chilling hand of death.
VIII.
Then spoke one, in bitter anguish:
"God have pity on my wife,
And my children, in New Hampshire;
Orphans by this cruel strife."
And the other, leaning closer,
Underneath the solemn sky,
Bowed his head to hide the moisture
Gathering in his downcast eye:
IX.
"_I've_ a wife and little daughter,
'Mid the fragrant Georgia bloom,"--
Then his cry rang sharper, wilder,
"Oh, God! pity all their gloom."
And the wounded, in their death-hour,
Talking of the loved ones' woes,
Nearer drew unto each other,
Till they were no longer foes.
X.
And the Georgian listened sadly
As the other tried to speak,
While the tears were dropping softly
O'er the pallor of his cheek:
"How she used to stand and listen,
Looking o'er the fields for me,
Waiting, till she saw me coming,
'Neath the shadowy old plum-tree.
Never more I'll hear her laughter,
As she sees me at the gate,
And beneath the plum-tree's shadows,
All in vain for me she'll wait."
XI.
Then the Georgian, speaking softly,
Said: "A brown-eyed little one
Used to wait among the roses,
For _me_, when the day was done;
And amid the early fragrance
Of those blossoms, fresh and sweet,
Up and down the old verandah
I would chase my darling's feet.
But on earth no more the beauty
Of her face my eye shall greet,
Nevermore I'll hear the music
Of those merry pattering feet--
Ah, the solemn starlight, falling
On the far-off Georgia bloom,
Tells no tale unto my darling
Of her absent father's doom."
XII.
Through the tears that rose between them
Both were trying grief to smother,
As they clasped each other's fingers
Whispering: _"Let's forgive each other."_
XIII.
When the morning sun was walking
"Up the gray stairs of the dawn,"
And the crimson east was flushing
All the forehead of the morn,
Pitying skies were looking sadly
On the "once proud, happy land,"
On the Southron and the Northman,
Holding fast each other's hand.
Fatherless the golden tresses,
Watching 'neath the old plum-tree;
Fatherless the little Georgian
Sporting in unconscious glee.
Chicago Journal of Commerce, June, 1868.
Our Confederate Dead.
What the Heart of a Young Girl Said to the Dead Soldier.
By a Lady of Augusta, Geo.
Unknown to me, brave boy, but still I wreathe
For you the tenderest of wildwood flowers;
And o'er your tomb a virgin's prayer I breathe,
To greet the pure moon and the April showers.
I only know, I only care to know,
You died for me--for me and country bled;
A thousand Springs and wild December snow
Will weep for one of all the SOUTHERN DEAD.
Perchance, some mother gazes up the skies,
Wailing, like Rachel, for her martyred brave--
Oh, for her darling sake, my dewy eyes
Moisten the turf above your lowly grave.
The cause is sacred, when our maidens stand
Linked with sad matrons and heroic sires,
Above the relics of a vanquished land
And light the torch of sanctifying fires.
Your bed of honor has a rosy cope
To shimmer back the tributary stars;
And every petal glistens with a hope
Where Love hath blossomed in the disk of Mars.
Sleep! On your couch of glory slumber comes
Bosomed amid the archangelic choir;
Not with the grumble of impetuous drums
Deepening the chorus of embattled ire.
Above you shall the oak and cedar fling
Their giant plumage and protecting shade;
For you the song-bird pause upon his wing
And warble requiems ever undismayed.
Farewell! And if your spirit wander near
To kiss this plant of unaspiring art--
Translate it, even in the heavenly sphere,
As the libretto of a maiden's heart.
Ye Cavaliers of Dixie
By Benj. F. Pouter, of Alabama.
Ye Cavaliers of Dixie
That guard our Southern shores,
Whose standards brave the battle-storm
That round the border roars;
Your glorious sabres draw again,
And charge the invading foe;
Reap the columns deep
Where the battle tempests blow,
Where the iron hail in floods descends,
And the bloody torrents flow.
Ye Cavaliers of Dixie!
Though dark the tempest lower,
No arms will wear a tyrant's chains!
No dastard heart will cower!
Bright o'er the cloud the sign will rise,
To lead to victory;
While your swords reap his hordes,
Where the battle-tempests blow,
And the iron hail in floods descends,
And the bloody torrents flow.
Ye Cavaliers of Dixie!
Though Vicksburg's towers fall,
Here still are sacred rights to shield!
Your wives, your homes, your all!
With gleaming arms advance again,
Drive back the raging foe,
Nor yield your native field,
While the battle-tempests blow,
And the iron hail in floods descends,
And the bloody torrents flow.
Our country needs no ramparts,
No batteries to shield!
Your bosoms are her bulwarks strong,
Breastworks that cannot yield!
The thunders of your battle-blades
Shall sweep the hated foe,
While their gore stains the shore,
Where the battle-tempests blow,
And the iron hail in floods descends,
And the bloody torrents flow.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall rise from every grave!
Our country is their field of fame,
They nobly died to save!
Where Johnson, Jackson, Tilghman fell,
Your patriot hearts shall glow;
While you reap columns deep,
Through the armies of the foe,
Where the battle-storm is raging loud,
And the bloody torrents flow.
The battle-flag of Dixie
On crimson field shall flame,
With azure cross, and silver stars,
To light her sons to fame!
When peace with olive-branch returns,
That flag's white folds shall glow,
Still bright on every height,
Where the storm has ceased to blow,
Where battle-tempests rage no more,
Nor bloody torrents flow.
The battle-flag of Dixie
Shall long triumphant wave,
Where'er the storms of battle roar,
And victory crowns the brave!
The Cavaliers of Dixie!
In woman's songs shall glow
The fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow,
When the battle-tempests rage no more,
Nor the bloody torrents flow.
Song of Spring, (1864.)
By John A. Wagener, of South Carolina.
Spring has come! Spring has come!
The brightening earth, the sparkling dew,
The bursting buds, the sky of blue,
The mocker's carol, in tree and hedge,
Proclaim anew Jehovah's pledge--
"So long as man shall earth retain,
The seasons gone shall come again."
Spring has come! Springs has come!
We have her here, in the balmy air,
In the blossoms that bourgeon without a care;
The violet bounds from her lowly bed,
And the jasmin flaunts with a lofty head;
All nature, in her baptismal dress,
Is abroad--to win, to soothe, and bless.
Spring has come! Spring has come!
Yes, and eternal as the Lord,
Who spells her being at a word;
All blest but man, whose passions proud
Wrap Nature in her bloody shroud--
His heart is winter to the core,
His spring, alas! shall come no more!
"What the Village Bell Said."
By John C. M'Lemore, of South Carolina.[1]
Full many a year in the village church,
Above the world have I made my home;
And happier there, than if I had hung
High up in the air in a golden dome;
For I have tolled
When the slow hearse rolled
Its burden sad to my door;
And each echo that woke,
With the solemn stroke,
Was a sigh from the heart of the poor.
I know the great bell of the city spire
Is a far prouder one than such as I;
And its deafening stroke, compared with mine,
Is thunder compared with a sigh:
But the shattering note
Of his brazen throat,
As it swells on the Sabbath air,
Far oftener rings
For other things
Than a call to the house of prayer.
Brave boy, I tolled when your father died,
And you wept while my tones pealed loud;
And more gently I rung when the lily-white dame,
Your mother dear, lay in her shroud:
And I sang in sweet tone
The angels might own,
When your sister you gave to your friend;
Oh! I rang with delight,
On that sweet summer night,
When they vowed they would love to the end!
But a base foe comes from the regions of crime,
With a heart all hot with the flames of hell;
And the tones of the bell you have loved so long
No more on the air shall swell:
For the people's chief,
With his proud belief
That his country's cause is God's own,
Would change the song,
The hills have rung,
To the thunder's harsher tone.
Then take me down from the village church,
Where in peace so long I have hung;
But I charge you, by all the loved and lost,
_Remember the songs I have sung._
Remember the mound
Of holy ground,
Where your father and mother lie;
And swear by the love
For the dead above
To beat your foul foe or die.
Then take me; but when (I charge you this)
You have come to the bloody field,
That the bell of God, to a cannon grown,
You will ne'er to the foeman yield.
By the love of the past,
Be that hour your last,
When the foe has reached this trust;
And make him a bed
Of patriot dead,
And let him sleep in this holy dust.
[1] Mortally wounded at the battle of Seven Pines.
The Tree, the Serpent, and the Star.
By A. P. Gray, of South Carolina.
From the silver sands of a gleaming shore,
Where the wild sea-waves were breaking,
A lofty shoot from a twining root
Sprang forth as the dawn was waking;
And the crest, though fed by the sultry beam,
(And the shaft by the salt wave only,)
Spread green to the breeze of the curling seas,
And rose like a column lonely.
Then hail to the tree, the Palmetto tree,
Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free.
As the sea-winds rustled the bladed crest,
And the sun to the noon rose higher,
A serpent came, with an eye of flame,
And coiled by the leafy pyre;
His ward he would keep by the lonely tree,
To guard it with constant devotion;
Oh, sharp was the fang, and the arméd clang,
That pierced through the roar of the ocean,
And guarded the tree, the Palmetto tree,
Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free.
And the day wore down to the twilight close,
The breeze died away from the billow;
Yet the wakeful clang of the rattles rang
Anon from the serpent's pillow;
When I saw through the night a gleaming star
O'er the branching summit growing,
Till the foliage green and the serpent's sheen
In the golden light were glowing,
That hung o'er the tree, the Palmetto tree,
Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free.
By the standard cleave every loyal son,
When the drums' long roll shall rattle;
Let the folds stream high to the victor's eye;
Or sink in the shock of the battle.
Should triumph rest on the red field won,
With a victor's song let us hail it;
If the battle fail and the star grow pale,
Yet never in shame will we veil it,
But cherish the tree, the Palmetto tree,
Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free.
Southern War Hymn
By John A. Wagener, of South Carolina.