There's not a stately hall,
There's not a cottage fair,
That proudly stands on Southern soil,
Or softly nestles there,
But in its peaceful walls,
With wealth or comfort blest,
A stormy battle fierce hath raged
In gentle woman's breast.
There Love, the true, the brave,
The beautiful, the strong,
Wrestles with Duty, gaunt and stern,
Wrestles and struggles long;
He falls--no more again
His giant foe to meet;
Bleeding at every opening vein,
Love falls at Duty's feet.
Oh! daughter of the South!
No victor's crown be thine;
Not thine, upon the tented field,
In martial pomp to shine;
But, with unfaltering trust
In Him who rules on high,
To deck thy loved ones for the fray,
And send them forth to die.
With wildly throbbing heart--
With faint and trembling breath--
The maiden speeds her lover on,
To victory or death;
Forth from caressing arms,
The mother sends her son,
And bids him nobly battle on,
Till the last field is won.
While she, the tried, the true,
The loving wife of years,
Chokes down the rising agony,
Drives back the starting tears:
"I yield thee up," she cries,
"In the country's cause to fight;
Strike for our own, our children's home,
And God defend the right."
Oh! daughter of the South,
When our fair land is free,
When peace her lovely mantle throws
Softly o'er land and sea,
History shall tell, how thou
Hast nobly borne thy part,
And won the proudest triumphs yet--
The victories of the heart.