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Civil War Songs - Confederate

General Robert E. Lee - Civil War songs - Songs of the Confederate States

Many of these song lyrics and poems have been long forgotten.  The archive centers on songs that were popular in the Confederate states during the Civil War.  In his book "War Songs and Poems of the Southern Confederacy 1861 - 1865",  H.M Wharton composed a wonderful foreword.

These songs and poems belong to the Nation.
Although our friends at the North will smile at some, wince at others, and even have their blood warmed by one here and there, they must not forget that they were written by their brothers and sisters during a family quarrel when feeling was intense and the fight hot and fast.

It is all over now; we are more united than ever and shall never fall out with each other again. My object has been to rescue from oblivion, these productions of a people as brave and true as ever lived, and yet within half a century forgetting the past, they have built up their shattered fortunes, and side by side with the men they had once fought, they stood in battle for the defense of our glorious flag.

No North, no South, no East, no West, but one and inseparable now and forever.

H.M. Wharton

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Real Civil War Songs Album

The most authentically digitally remastered Civil War Music ever recorded. Performed by the best studio artists recording today!  The official website for the product was launched June of 2011. At the website,  realcivilwarmusic.com,  you can sample all twelve tracks, including some familiar tunes like Dixie, Battle Hymn of the Republic, Yellow Rose of Texas, When Johny Comes Marching Home Again, as well as less familiar selections such as Aura Lea, The Battle Cry of Freedom, Rebel Soldier, Hard Times Come Again No More, Old Dan Tucker, Bonnie Blue Flag and Arkansas Traveler. A history of each song is also included. Digital downloads of all twelve tracks is $9.99, which also includes a optional physical copy of the CD.

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Civil War Songs - Songs of the Confederacy

A

A BALLAD OF THE WAR.
By George Herbert Sass

Watchman, what of the night?
Through the city's darkening street,
Silent and slow the guardsmen go
On their long and lonely beat.

Darkly, drearily down
Falleth the wintry rain;
And the cold, gray mist hath the roof-tops kissed,
As it glides o'er town and plain.

Beating against the windows,
The sleet falls heavy and chill,
And the children draw nigher 'round hearth and fire,
As the blast shrieks loud and shrill.

Silent is all without,
Save the sentry's challenge grim,
And a hush sinks down o'er the weary town,
And the sleeper's eyes are dim.

Watchman, what of the night?
Hark! from the old church-tower
Rings loud and clear on the misty air,
The chime of the midnight hour.

But another sound breaks in,
A summons deep and rude,
The roll of the drum, and the rush and hum
Of a gathering multitude.

And the dim and flickering torch
Sheds a red and lurid glare,
O'er the long dark line, whose bayonets shine
Faintly, yet sternly there.

A low, deep voice is heard:
"Rest on your arms, my men."
Then the muskets clank through each serried rank,
And all is still again.

Pale faces and tearful eyes
Gaze down on that grim array,
For a rumor hath spread that that column dread
Marcheth ere break of day.

Marcheth against "the rebels,"
Whose camp lies heavy' and still,
Where the driving sleet and cold rain beat
On the brow of a distant hill.

And the mother's heart grows faint, -
As she thinks of her darling one,
Who perchance may lie 'neath that wintry sky,
Ere the long, dark night be done.

Pallid and haggard, too,
Is the cheek of the fair young wife;
And her eyes grow dim as she thinks of him
She loveth more than life.

For fathers, husbands, sons,
Are the "rebels" the foe would smite,
And earnest the prayer for those lives so dear,
And a bleeding country's right.

And where their treasure is,
There is each loving heart;
And sadly they gaze by the torches' blaze,
And the tears unbidden start.

Is there none to warn the camp,
None from that anxious throng?
Ah, the rain beats down o'er plain and town—
The way is dark and long.

No man is left behind,
None that is brave and true,
And the bayonets, bright in the lurid light
With menace stern shine through.

Guarded is every street,
Brutal the hireling foe;
Is there one heart here will boldly dare
So brave a deed to do?

Look! in her still, dark room,
Alone a woman kneels,
With Care's deep trace on her pale, worn face,
And Sorrow's ruthless seals.

Wrinkling her placid brow,
A matron, she, and fair,
Though wan her cheek, and the silver streak
Gemming her glossy hair.

A moment in silent prayer
Her pale lips move, and then,
Through the dreary night, like an angel bright,
On her mission of love to men.

She glideth upon her way,
Through the lonely, misty street,
shrinking with dread as she hears the tread
Of the watchman on his beat.

Onward, aye, onward still,
Far past the weary town,
Till languor doth seize on her feeble knees,
And the heavy hands hang down.

But bravely she struggles on,
Breasting the cold, dank rain,
And, heavy and chill, the mist from the hill
Sweeps down upon the plain.

Hark! far behind she hears
A dull and muffled tramp,
But before her the gleam of the watch-fire's beam
Shines out from the Southern camp.

She hears the sentry's challenge,
Her work of love is done;
She has fought a good fight, and on Fame's proud height
Hath a crown of glory won.

Oh, they tell of a Tyrol maiden,
Who saved from a ruthless foe
Her own fair town, 'mid its mountains brown,
Three hundred years ago.

And I've read in tales heroic
How a noble Scottish maid
Her own life gave, her king to save
From the foul assassin's blade.

But if these, on the rolls of honor,
Shall live in lasting fame,
Oh, close beside, in grateful pride,
We'll write this matron's name.

And when our fair-haired children
Shall cluster round our knee,
With wondering gaze, as we tell of the days
When we swore that we would be free.

We'll tell them the thrillling story,
And we'll say to each childish heart,
"By this gallant deed, at thy country's need,
Be ready to do thy part."

A CHRISTMAS OF LONG AGO.
By Morton Bryan Wharton, D.D.

I Am thinking to-night in sadness
Of a Christmas of long ago,
When the air was filled with gladness,
And the earth was wrapped in snow;
When the stars like diamonds glistened
And the night was crisp and cold,
As I eagerly watched and listened
For the Santa Claus of old.

The forest was robbed of its treasures,
The house was a mass of green,
And I reveled in Christmas pleasures,
At the dawn of Aurora's sheen;
Some' talked of the Savior's mission,
But I of my pretty toys;
Some knelt in devout petition—
I romped and played with the boys.

We went to the pond for skating,
To the stable to take a ride,
And we found new joys awaiting,
To whatever spot we hied;
But the climax of my story
Was that evening's fireworks show!
Went out in a blaze of glory—
That Christmas of long ago!

But in sadness I think of that Christmas,
For many then happy and gay
Have gone to the realm of silence
And sleep in their beds of clay;
The hands that filled kindly my stockings,
I shall grasp in this world no more,
But when at Heaven's portals I'm knocking
They'll open the beautiful door.

They will lead me in tenderness clinging,
And place me before the throne,
Where the choirs angelic are singing
And the heavenly gifts are strown,
And there in the realm of glory,
With my loved ones at my side,
I'll repeat the old Bethlehem story
And join in that Christmas tide.

 

B

"THE BALTIMORE GRAYS."

AH, well I remember that long summer's day
When, round about Richmond our broken ranks lay.
Week in and week out they had been at the front,
And bore without flinching the battle's fierce brunt.
Till, shattered and weary, we needed repose
"Sre we met in death-struggle our numberless foes.
Our knapsacks were empty, our uniforms worn,
Our feet, from long marching, were naked and torn;
But not a man grumbled in the rank or the file,
We bore all our hardships with a joke and a smile,
For Jackson was with us, and under his eye,
Each soldier determined to do or to die.

That evening old Jack had us out on review,
When a glance down the line showed us all something new—
Eighty-seven young boys from old Baltimore,
Who had run the blockade and that day joined the corps.
Their clothes were resplendent, all new, spick and span—
Twas plain that a tailor had measured each man.
When we learned who they were what a shout we did raise!
How we cheered our new allies, the " Baltimore Grays!"
There were Lightfoots and Carters, and Howards and Kanes,
The grandsons of Carroll, the nephews of Gaines,
And in each of the brave boys dressed up in a row,
You could see the pure blood of the proud Huguenot.

But we were old vets of Stonewall's brigade;
We'd been fighting so long that war seemed a trade;
And some of us laughed at the youngsters so gay
Who had come to the battle as if coming to play;
And all through the camp you could hear the rough wits
Cry, "Hullo, young roosters !" and "Dandified cits!"
But the boys took it bravely, and heartily laughed
At the hungry " Confeds" by whom they were chaffed,
Till one ragged soldier, more bold than the rest,
Fired off this rough joke, which we all thought the best:
"Boys, you'd better go home; 'tis getting quite late."
Then the girlish-faced captain spoke up and said, " Wait!':

They didn't wait long, for the very next day
Wo were ordered right off to the thick of the fray;
For early that morning we'd heard the dull roar
Of the guns of our foeman on Rapidan's shore,
And all of us knew, with old Jack in command,
If fighting was near him, he'd at once take a hand.
And, sure enough, soon marching orders we got,
And we swung down the road in "foot-cavalry" trot.
The boys were behind us. I fell to the roar,
To see how the youngsters on march would appear.
Their files were close up, their marching was true,
I reported to Stonewall, " Yes, General, they'll do."

In a few minutes more the action began.
We met the first shock, for we were the van;
But we stood to our ranks like oaks of the field,
For Stonewall's brigade never knew how to yield.
Upon us, however, a battery played,
And huge gaps in our ranks were now and then made,
Till Jackson commanded a charge up the hill.
We charged—in a moment the cannon were still.
Jackson said to the Grays, "Such valor you've shown,
You'll veterans be ere your beards are full grown;
In this, your first action, you've proved yourself bold;
I'll station you here, these guns you must hold."

Then the girlish-faced captain, so straight and so tall,
Saluted, and said, "You'll here find us all,
For, wherever stationed, this company stays."
How we laughed, how we cheered the bold Baltimore Grays!
But the red tide of battle around us still flowed,
And we followed our leader, as onward he rode;
Cried "Good-by'' to the boys; "take care of the guns—
We'll relieve you as soon as the enemy runs."
Ah, yes, indeed! soon the brave boys were relieved,
But not in the manner we all had believed;
Alas, the sisters who weep and the mothers who pine
For the loved and the lost of the Maryland line!

By some fatal blunder our left was exposed,
And by thousands of Federals the boys were enclosed;
They asked for no quarter, their Maryland blood
Never dreamed of surrender, they fell where they stood.
We heard in the distance the firing and noise,
And double-quicked back to the help of the boys.
The guns were soon ours; but oh, what a sight!
Every Baltimore boy had been killed in the fight,
Save the girlish-faced captain, and he scarce alive.
When he saw us around him he seemed to revive,
And smiled when we told him the field had been won,
And the Baltimore Grays had saved every gun.

The Stonewall rode up and endeavored to speak,
But his utterance was.choked, and down his bronzed cheek
The hot tears flowed, as he gazed on the dead,
"God pity their mothers and sisters !" he said.
Then, dismounting, he knelt on the blood-sodden sand,
And prayed while he held the dying boy's hand;
The gallant young hero said, " General, I knew
That the Grays to your orders would always be true;
You'll miss not a Gray from our final call;
Look around you, my General—you'll here find us all."
The blood gushed from his mouth, his head sunk on his breast,
And the girlish-faced captain lay dead with the rest.

THE BATTLE OF RICHMOND.
By George Herbert Sass,
Charleston, South Carolina.

"Now blessed be the Lord of Hosts through all our Southern land,
And blessed be His holy name, in whose great might we
stand;
For He who loves the voice of prayer hath heard His people's
cry,
And with His own almighty arm hath won the victory; Oh, tell it out through hearth and home, from blue Potomac's wave To those far waters of the West which hide De Soto's grave.

Now let there be through all the land one grand triumphant cry,
Wherever beats a Southern heart, or glows a Southern sky;
For He who ruleth every fight hath been with us to-day,
And the great God of battles hath led the glorious fray;
Oh, then unto His holy name ring out the joyful song,
The race hath not been to the swift, the battle to the strong.

From royal Hudson's cliff-crowned banks, from proud Ohio'sflood,
From that dark rock in Plymouth's bay where erst the Pilgrims stood,
From East and North, from far and near, went forth the gathering cry,
And the countless hordes came swarming on with fierce and lustful eye. 
In the great name of Liberty each thirsty sword is drawn;
In the great name of Liberty each tyrant presseth on.

Alas, alas! her sacred name is all dishonored now,
And blood-stained hands are tearing off each laurel from her brow,
But ever yet rings out the cry, in loud and mocking tone,
Still in her holy shrine they strive to rear a despot's throne;
And pressing on with eager tread, they sweep across the land,
To burn, and havoc, and destroy—a fierce and ruthless band.

I looked on fair Potomac's shore, and at my feet the while
The sparkling waves leaped gayly up to meet glad summer's smile;
And pennons gay were floating there, and banners fair to see,
A mighty host arrayed, I ween, in war's proud panoply;
And as I gazed a cry arose, a low, deep-swelling hum,
And loud and stern along the line broke in the sullen drum.

Onward, o'er fair Virginia's fields, through ranks of nodding grain,
With shout and song they sweep along, a gay and gallant train.
Oh, ne'er, I ween, had those broad plains beheld a fairer sight,
And clear and glad those skies of June shed forth their glorious light.
Onwards, yea, ever onwards, that mighty host hath passed,
And "On to Richmond" is the cry which echoes on the blast.

I looked again, the rising sun shines down upon the moors,
And 'neath his beams rise ramparts high and frowning embrasures,
And on each proud abattis yawn, with menace stem and dread,
Grim-visaged messengers of death; the watchful sentry's tread
In measured cadence slowly falls; all Nature seems at ease,
And over all the Stars and Stripes are floating in the breeze.

But far away another line is stretching dark and long,
Another flag is floating free where armed legions throng;
Another war-cry's on the air, as wakes the martial drum,
And onward still, in serried ranks, the Southern soldiers  come,
And up to that abattis high the charging columns tread,
And bold and free the Stars and Bars are waving at their head.

They are on it! they are o'er it! who can stay that living flood?
Lo, ever swelling, rolleth on the weltering tide of blood.
Yet another and another is full boldly stormed and won,
And forward to the spoiler's camp the column presseth on.
Hurrah! hurrah! the field is won! we've met them man to man,
And ever still the Stars and Bars are riding in the van.

They are flying! they are flying! and close upon their track
Comes our glorious "Stonewall" Jackson, with ten thousand at his back;
And Longstreet, too, and gallant Hill, and Bhodes, and brave Hugee,
And he whose name is worth a host, our bold, devoted Lee;
And back to where the lordly James his scornful billows rolls,
The recreant foe is fleeing fast—those men of dastard souls.

They are flying! they are flying! horse and foot, and bold dragoon,
In one refluent mass are mingled, 'neath the slowly waning moon; brow,
But ever yet rings out the cry, in loud and mocking tone,
Still in her holy shrine they strive to rear a despot's throne;
And pressing on with eager tread, they sweep across the land,
To burn, and havoc, and destroy—a fierce and ruthless band.

I looked on fair Potomac's shore, and at my feet the while
The sparkling waves leaped gayly up to meet glad summer's smile;
And pennons gay were floating there, and banners fair to see,
A mighty host arrayed, I ween, in war's proud panoply;
And as I gazed a cry arose, a low, deep-swelling hum,
And loud and stern along the line broke in the sullen drum.

Onward, o'er fair Virginia's fields, through ranks of nodding grain,
With shout and song they sweep along, a gay and gallant train.
Oh, ne'er, I ween, had those broad plains beheld a fairer sight,
And clear and glad those skies of June shed forth their glorious light.
Onwards, yea, ever onwards, that mighty host hath passed,
And "On to Richmond" is the cry which echoes on the blast.

I looked again, the rising sun shines down upon the moors,
And 'neath his beams rise ramparts high and frowning embrasures,
And on each proud abattis yawn, with menace stem and dread,
Grim-visaged messengers of death; the watchful sentry's tread
In measured cadence slowly falls; all Nature seems at ease,
And over all the Stars and Stripes are floating in the breeze.

But far away another line is stretching dark and long,
Another flag is floating free where armed legions throng;
Another war-cry's on the air, as wakes the martial drum,
And onward still, in serried ranks, the Southern soldiers come,
And up to that abattis high the charging columns tread,
And bold and free the Stars and Bars are waving at their head.

They are on it! they are o'er it! who can stay that living flood?
Lo, ever swelling, rolleth on the weltering tide of blood.
Yet another and another is full boldly stormed and won,
And forward to the spoiler's camp the column presseth on.
Hurrah! hurrah! the field is won! we've met them man to man,
And ever still the Stars and Bars are riding in the van.

They are flying! they are flying! and close upon their track
Comes our glorious "Stonewall" Jackson, with ten thousand at his back;
And Longstreet, too, and gallant Hill, and Bhodes, and brave Hugee,
And he whose name is worth a host, our bold, devoted Lee;
And back to where the lordly James his scornful billows rolls,
The recreant foe is fleeing fast—those men of dastard souls.

They are flying! they are flying! horse and foot, and bold dragoon,
In one refluent mass are mingled, 'neath the slowly waning moon;
And louder still the cry is heard, as borne upon the blast,
The shouts of the pursuing host are rising full and fast;
"On, on unto the river, 'tis our only chance for life!
We needs must reach the gunboats, or we perish in the strife!"

'Tis done! the gory field is ours; we've conquered in the fight!
And yet once more our tongues can tell the triumph of the right;
And humbled is the haughty foe, who our destruction sought,
For God's right hand and holy arm have great deliverance wrought.
Oh, then, unto His holy name ring out the joyful song—
The race has not been to the swift, the battle to the strong.

THE BATTLE RAINBOW.
By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.

The warm, weary day, was departing—the smile
Of the sunset gave token the tempest had ceased;
And the lightning yet fitfully gleamed for a while
On the cloud that sank sullen and dark in the east.

There our army—awaiting the terrible fight
Of the morrow—lay hopeful and watching, and still;
Where their tents all the region had sprinkled with white,
From river to river, o'er meadow and hill.

While above them the fierce cannonade of the sky
Blazed and burst from the vapors that muffled the sun,
Their "counterfeit clamors" gave forth no reply;
And slept till the battle, the charge in each gun.

When, lo! on the cloud, a miraculous thing!
Broke in beauty the rainbow our host to enfold!
The centre o'erspread by its arch, and each wing
Suffused with its azure and crimson and gold.

Blest omen of victory, symbol divine
Of peace after tumult, repose after pain;
How sweet and how glowing with promise the sign,
To eyes that should never behold it again!

For the fierce flame of war on the morrow flashed out,
And its thunder-peals filled all the tremulous air:
Over slippery intrenchment and reddened redoubt,
Rang the wild cheer of triumph, the cry of despair.

Then a long week of glory and agony came—
Of mute supplication, and yearning, and dread;
When day unto day gave the record of fame,
And night unto night gave the list of its dead.

We had triumphed—the foe had fled back to his ships—
His standard in rags and his legions a wreck—
But alas! the stark faces and colorless lips
Of our loved ones, gave triumph's rejoicing a check.

Not yet, oh, not yet, as a sign of release,
Had the Lord set in mercy His bow in the cloud;
Not yet had the Comforter whispered of peace
To the hearts that around us lay bleeding and bowed.

But the promise was given—the beautiful arc,
With its brilliant profusion of colors, that spanned
The sky on that exquisite eve, was the mark
Of the Infinite Love overarching the land.

And that Love, shining richly and full as the day,
Through the tear-drops that moisten each martyr's proud pall,
On the gloom of the past the bright bow shall display
Of Freedom, Peace, Victory, bent over all.

BEAUFORT.
By W. J. Grayson, Of South Carolina.

Old home! what blessings late were yours;
The gifts of peace, the songs of joy!
No, hostile squadrons seek our shores,
To ravage and destroy.

The Northman comes no longer there
With soft address and measured phrase,
With bated breath, and sainted air,
And simulated praise.

He comes a vulture to his prey;
A wolf to raven in your streets;
Around on shining stream and bay
Gather his bandit fleets.

They steal the pittance of the poor;
Pollute the precincts of the dead;
Despoil the widow of her store,—
The orphan of his bread.

Crimes like their crimes—of lust and blood,
No Christian laud has known before;
Oh, for some scourge of fire and flood,
To sweep them from the shore!

Exiles from home, your people fly,
In adverse fortune's hardest school;
With swelling breast and flashing eye
They scorn the tyrant's rule!

Away, from all their joys away,
The sports that active youth engage;
The scenes where childhood loves to play,
The resting-place of age.

Away, from fertile field and farm;
The oak-fringed island-homes that seem
To sit like swans, with matchless charm,
On sea-born sound and stream.

Away, from palm-environed coast,
The beach that ocean beats in vain;
The Royal Port, your pride and boast,
The loud-resounding main.

Away, from orange groves that glow
With golden fruit or snowy flowers,
Roses that never cease to blow,
Myrtle and jasmine bowers.

From these afar, the hoary head
Of feeble age, the timid maid,
Mothers and nurslings, all have fled,
Of ruthless foes afraid.

But ready, with avenging hand,
By wood and fen, in ambush lie
Your sons, a stern, determined band,
Intent to do or die.

Whene'er the foe advance to dare
The onset, urged by hate and wrath,
Still have they found, aghast with fear,
A Lion in the path.

Scourged, to their ships they wildly rush,
Their shattered ranks to shield and save,
And learn how hard a task to crush
The spirit of the brave.

0h, God! Protector of the right,
The widows' stay, the orphans' friend,
Restrain the rage of lawless might,
The wronged and crushed defend!

Be guide and helper, sword and shield!
From hill and vale, where'er they roam,
Bring back the yeoman to his field,
The exile to his home!

Pastors and scattered flocks restore;
Their fanes rebuild, their altars raise;
And let their quivering lips once more
Rejoice in songs of praise!

 

C 

CAROLINA.
By Henry Timrod.

The despot treads thy sacred sands,
Thy pines give shelter to his bands,
Thy sons stand by with idle hands,
Carolina!

He breathes at ease thy airs of balm,
He scorns the lances of thy palm;
Oh! who shall break thy craven calm,
Carolina!

Thy ancient fame is growing dim,
A spot is on thy garment's rim;
Give to the winds thy battle-hymn,
Carolina!

Call on thy children of the hill,
Wake swamp and river, coast and rill,
Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill,
Carolina!

Cite wealth and science, trade and art,
Touch with thy fire the cautious mart,
And pour thee through the people's heart,
Carolina!

Till even the coward spurns his fears,
And all thy fields, and fens, and meres,
Shall bristle like thy palm, with spears,
Carolina!

Hold up the glories of thy dead;
Say how thy elder children bled,
And point to Eutaw's battle-bed,
Carolina!

Tell how the patriot's soul was tried,
And what his dauntless breast defied;
How Rutledge ruled, and Laurens died,
Carolina!

Cry! till thy summons, heard at last,
Shall fall, like Marion's bugle-blast,
Re-echoed from the haunted past,
Carolina!

I hear a murmur, as of waves
That grope their way through sunless caves.
Like bodies struggling in their graves,
Carolina!

And now it deepens; slow and grand
It swells, as rolling to the land
An ocean broke upon the strand,
Carolina!

Shout! let it reach the startled Huns!
And roar with all thy festal guns!
It is the answer of thy sons,
Carolina!

They will not wait to hear thee call;
From Sachem's head to Sumter's wall
Resounds the voice of hut and hall,
Carolina!

No! thou hast not a stain, they say,
Or none save what the battle-day
Shall wash in seas of blood away,
Carolina!

Thy skirts, indeed, the foe may part,
Thy robe be pierced with sword and dart,
They shall not touch thy noble heart,
Carolina!

Ere thou shalt own the tyrant's thrall,
Ten times ten thousand men must fall;
Thy corpse may hearken to his call,
Carolina!

When by thy bier, in mournful throngs,
The women chant thy mortal wrongs,
'Twill be their own funereal songs,
Carolina!

From thy dead breast, by ruffians trod,
No helpless child shall look to God;
All shall be safe beneath thy sod,
Carolina!

Girt with such wills to do and bear,
Assured in right, and mailed in prayer,
Thou wilt not bow thee to despair,
Carolina!

Throw thy bold banner to the breeze!
Front with thy ranks the threatening seas,
Like thine own proud armorial trees,
Carolina!

Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns,
And roar the challenge from thy guns;
Then leave the future to thy sons,
Carolina!

CAROLINA.
April 14, 1861

Carolina! Carolina!
Noble name in State and story,
How I love thy truthful glory,
As I love the blue sky o'er ye,
Carolina evermore!

Carolina! Carolina!
Land of chivalry unfearing,
Daughters fair beyond comparing,
Sons of worth and noble daring,
Carolina evermore!

Carolina! Carolina!
Soft thy clasp in loving greeting,
Plenteous board and kindly meeting,
All thy pulses nobly beating,
Carolina evermore!

Carolina! Carolina!
Green thy valleys, bright thy heaven,
Bold thy streams through forest riven,
Bright thy laurels, hero-given,
Carolina evermore!

Carolina! Carolina!
Holy name, and dear forever,
Never shall thy children, never,
Fail to strike with grand endeavor,
Carolina evermore!

 

CHARLESTON.
By Paul H. Hayne.

What still does the Mother of Treason uprear
Her crest 'gainst the Furies that darken her sea?
Unquelled by mistrust, and unblanched by a Fear,
Unbowed her proud head, and unbending her knee,
Calm, steadfast, and free?

Aye! launch your red lightnings, blaspheme in your wrath,
Shock earth, wave, and heaven with the blasts of your ire;
But she seizes your death-bolts, yet hot from their path,
And hurls back your lightnings, and mocks at the fire
Of your fruitless desire.

Ringed round by her Brave, a fierce circlet of flame,
Flashes up from the sword-points that cover her breast
She is guarded by Love, and enhalood by Fame,
And never, we swear, shall your footsteps be pressed
Where her dead heroes rest!

Her voice shook the Tyrant—sublime from her tongue
Fell the accents of warning,—a Prophetess grand,—
On her soil the first life-notes of Liberty rung,
And the first stalwart blow of her gauntleted hand
Broke the sleep of her land!

What more! she hath grasped with her iron-bound will
The fate that would trample her honor to earth,—
The light in those deep eyes is luminous still
With the warmth of her valor the glow of her worth,
Which illumine the Earth!

And beside her a Knight the great Bayard had loved,
"Without fear or reproach," lifts her Banner on high;
He stands in the vanguard, majestic unmoved,
And a thousand firm souls, when that Chieftain is nigh
Vow, "'tis easy to die!"

Their swords have gone forth on the fetterless air!
The world's breath is hushed at the conflict! before
Gleams the bright form of Freedom with wreaths in her hair—
And what though the chaplet be crimsoned with gore,
We shall prize her the more!

And while Freedom lures on with her passionate eyes
To the height of her promise, the voices of yore,
From the storied Profound of past ages arise,
And the pomps of their magical music outpour
O'er the war-beaten shore.

Then gird your brave Empress, O! Heroes, with flame
Flashed up from the sword-points that cover her breast.
She is guarded by Love, and enhaloed by Fame,
And never, base Foe! shall your footsteps be pressed
Where her dead Martyrs rest!

CHICKAMAUGA—" THE STREAM OF DEATH."

Chickamauga! Chickamauga!
O'er thy dark and turbid wave
Rolls the death-cry of the daring,
Rings the
war-shout of the brave;
Round thy shore the red fires flashing,
Startling shot and screaming shell—
Chickamauga, stream of battle,
Who thy fearful tal
e shall tell?

Olden memories of horror,
Sown by scourge of deadly plague,
Long have clothed thy circling forests
With a terror vast and vague,
Now to gather further vigor
From the phantoms grim with gore,
Hurried, by war's wilder carnage,
To their graves on thy lone shore.

Long, with hearts subdued and saddened,
As th' oppressor's hosts moved on,
Fell the arms of freedom backward,
Till our hopes had almost flown;
Till outspoke stern valor's fiat—
"Here th' invading wave shall stay;
Here shall cease the foe's proud progress;
Here be crushed his grand array!"

Then their eager hearts all throbbing,
Backward flashed each battle-flag
Of the veteran corps of Longstreet,
And the sturdy troops of Bragg;
Fierce upon the foemen turning,
All their pent-up wrath breaks out
In the furious battle-clangor,
And the frenzied battle-shout.

Roll thy dark waves, Chickamauga,
Trembles all thy ghastly shore,
With the rude shock of the onset,
And the tumult's horrid roar;
As the Southern battle-giants
Hurl their bolts of death along,
Breckenridge, the iron-hearted,
Cheatham, chivalric and strong:

Polk and Preston—gallant Buckner,
Hill and Hindman, strong in might,
Cleburne, flower of manly valor,
Hood, the Ajax of the fight;
Benning, bold and hardy warrior,
Fearless, resolute Kershaw,
 Mingle battle-yell and death-bolt,
Volley fierce and wild hurrah!

At the volleys bleed their bodies,
At the fierce shout rise their souls,
While the fiery wave of vengeance
On their quailing column rolls;
And the parched throats of the stricken
Breathe for air the roaring flame,
Horrors of that hell foretasted
Who shall ever dare to name!

Borne by those who, stiff and mangled,
Paid, upon that bloody field,
Direful, cringing, awe-struck homage
To the sword our heroes wield;
And who felt, by fiery trial,
That the men who will be free,
Though in conflict baffled often,
Ever will unconquered be!

Learned, though long unchecked they spoil us,
Dealing desolation round,
Marking, with the track of ruin,
Many a rood of Southern ground;
Yet, whatever course they follow,
Somewhere in their pathway flows,
Dark and deep, a Chickamauga,
Stream of death to vandal foes!

They have found it darkly flowing
By Manassas' famous plain,
And by rushing Shenandoah
Met the tide of woe again;
Chickahominy, immortal,
By the long, ensanguined fight,
Rappahannock, glorious river,
Twice renowned for matchless fight.

Heed the story, dastard spoilers,
Mark the tale these waters tell,
Ponder well your fearful lesson,
And the doom that there befell;
Learn to shun the Southern vengeance,
Sworn upon the votive sword,
"Every stream a Chickamauga
To the vile invading horde!"


CLEBURNE.
By M. A. Jennings, of Alabama.
"Another Star now Shines on High."

ANother ray of light hath fled, another Southern brave
Hath fallen in his country's cause and found a laureled grave—
Hath fallen, but his deathless name shall live when stars shall set,
For, noble Cleburne, thou art one this world will ne'er forget.

'Tis true, thy warm heart beats no more, that on thy noble head
Azrael place his icy hand, and thou art with the dead;
The glancing of thine eyes are dim; no more will they be bright
Until they ope in Paradise, with clearer, heavenlier light.

No battle news disturbs thy rest upon the sun-bright shore,
No clarion voice awakens thee on earth to wrestle more,
No tramping steed, no wary foe bids thee awake, arise,
For thou art in the angel world, beyond the starry skies.

Brave Cleburne, dream in thy low bed, with pulseless, deadened heart;
Calm, calm and sweet, O warrior rest! thou well hast borne thy part,
And now a glory wreath for thee the angels singing twine,
A glory wreath, not of the earth, but made by hands divine.

A long farewell—we give thee up, with all thy bright renown,
A chieftain here on earth is lost, in heaven an angel found.
Above thy grave a wail is heard—a nation mourns her dead;
A nobler for the South ne'er died, a braver never bled.

A last farewell—how can we speak the bitter word farewell !
The anguish of our bleeding hearts vain words may never tell.
Sleep on, sleep on, to God we give our chieftain in his might;
And weeping, feel he lives on high, where comes no sorrow's night.

THE CONFEDERACY.
By Jane T. H. Cross.

"Born in a day, full-grown, our Nation stood,
The pearly light of heaven was on her face
Life's early joy was coursing in her blood;
A thing she was of beauty and of grace.

She stood, a stranger on the great broad earth,
No voice of sympathy was heard to greet
The glory-beaming morning of her birth,
Or hail the coming of the unsoiled feet.

She stood, derided by her passing foes;
Her heart beat calmly 'neath their look of scorn:
Their rage in blackening billows round her rose—
Her brow, meanwhile, as radiant as the morn.

Their poisonous coils about her limbs are cast,
She shakes them off in pure and holy ire,
As quietly as Paul, in ages past,
Shook off the serpent in the crackling fire.

She bends not to her foes, nor to the world,
She bears a heart for glory, or for gloom;
But with her starry cross, her flag unfurled,
She kneels amid the sweet magnolia bloom.

She kneels to Thee, O God, she claims her birth,
She lifts to Thee her young and trusting eye,
She asks of Thee her place upon the earth—
For it is Thine to give or to deny.

Oh, let Thine eye but recognize her right!
Oh, let Thy voice but justify her claim!
Like grasshoppers are nations in Thy sight,
And all their power is but an empty name.

Then listen, Father, listen to her prayer!
Her robes are dripping with her children's blood;
Her foes around "like bulls of Bashan stare,"
They fain would sweep her off, "as with a flood."

The anguish wraps her close around, like death,
Her children lie in heaps about her slain;
Before the world she bravely holds her breath,
Nor gives one utterance to a note of pain.

But 'tis not like Thee to forget the oppressed,
Thou feel'st within her heart the stifled moan—
Thou Christ! Thou Lamb of God! oh, give her rest!
For thou hast called her !—is she not Thine own?

 

"THE CONFEDERATE NOTE."
Written by Major S. A. Jonas, of Mississippi.

Representing nothing on God's earth now,
And naught in the water below it
As a pledge of the nation that's dead and gone,
Keep it, dear friend, and show it.

Show it to those who will lend an ear
To the tale that this paper can tell,
Of liberty born, of patriot's dream
Of the storm cradled nation that fell.

Too poor to possess the precious ores,
And too much of a stranger to borrow,
We issued to-day our promise to pay,
And hope to redeem on the morrow.

The days rolled on and weeks became years,
But our coffers were empty still,
Coin was so rare that the Treasury quaked,
If a dollar should drop in the till.

But the faith that was in us was strong indeed,
And our poverty well discerned;
And these little checks represented the pay,
That our volunteers earned.

We know it had hardly value in gold,
Yet as gold her soldier received it.
It gazed in our eyes with a promise to pay,
And each patriot soldier believed it.

But our boys thought little of price of pay,
Or of bills that were ever due;
We knew if it brought us bread to-day,
Twas the best our poor country could do.

Keep it, for it tells our history o'er,
From the birth of its dreams to the last,
Modest and born of the angel Hope,
Like the hope of success it passed.

D

THE DEATH OF JEFFERSON DAVIS.
By Morton Bryan Wharton, D. D.

Our mighty Chieftain breathes no more,
His noble form, now cold and still,
Has fallen at last, life's conflict o'er,
Obedient to his Maker's will.
As die the brave and true, he dies,—
He rests upon a stainless shield,
The great Commander of the skies
Alone could call him from the field.

His noble spirit dwells on high,
Where slanders never vex the soul;
And fitting 'tis his dust should lie
Far, far removed from prowling ghoul.
Among his friends should be his tomb,
There on old Ocean's utmost verge,
Where snow-white flowers perennial bloom
And wild waves chant his funeral dirge.

And he will stand on History's page,
While cycling years shall onward move,
The victim once of senseless rage,
Now, idol of his people's love.
When hate is buried in the dust,
When party strife shall break its spear,
When truth is free and men are just,
Then will his epitaph appear.

The Parian quarry asks for time
In which the marble to mature,
Destined to speak his fame sublime,
Worthy to shrine a heart so pure;
Till then unmarked we bid him lay,
With carping critics plead a truce,
But dear the spot which holds his clay
As that which holds the heart of Bruce.

DIRGE FOR ASHBY.
By Mrs. M. J. Preston.

Heard ye that thrilling word-
Accent of dread—
Fall, like a thunderbolt,
Bowing each head?
Over the battle dun,
Over each booming gun—
Ashby, our bravest one!
Ashby is dead!

Saw ye the veterans—
Hearts that had known
Never a quail of fear,
Never a groan—
Sob, though the fight they win,
Tears their stern eyes within—
Ashby, our Paladin,
Ashby is dead!

Dash, dash the tear away—
Crush down the pain!
Dulce et deem, be
Fittest refrain!
Why should the dreary pall,
Round him be flung at all?
Did not our hero fall
Gallantly slain?

Catch the last words of cheer,
Dropt from his tongue:
Over the battle'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—
Dauntlessly brave—
Knightly as knightliest;
Bayard might crave;
Sweet, with all Sydney's grace,
Tender as Hampden's face,
Who now shall fill the space,
Void by his grave?

'Tis not one broken heart,
Wild with dismay—
Crazed in her agony,
Weeps o'er his clay!
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
Leads at your head!
Heroes! be battle done
Bravelier, every one
Nerved by the thought alone—
Ashby is dead!

 

DIXIE.
By Albert Pike.

Southrons, hear your Country call you
Up! lest worse than death befall you!
To arms! to arms! to arms! in Dixie!
Lo! all the beacon-fires are lighted,
Let all hearts be now united!
To arms! to arms! to arms ! in Dixie!
Advance the flag of Dixie!

Hurrah! hurrah!
For Dixie's land we'll take our stand,
To live or die for Dixie!
To arms! to arms!
And conquer peace for Dixie!
To arms! to arms!
And conquer peace for Dixie!

Hear the Northern thunders mutter!
Northern flags in South winds flutter!
To arms! etc.
Send them back your fierce defiance!
Stamp upon the accursed alliance!
To arms! etc.
Advance the flag of Dixie, etc.

Fear no danger! shun no labor!
Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre!
To arms! etc.
Shoulder pressing close to shoulder,
Let the odds make each heart bolder!
To arms! etc.
Advance the flag of Dixie, etc.

How the South's great heart rejoices
At your cannon's ringing voices;
To arms! etc.
For faith betrayed and pledges broken,
Wrong inflicted, insults spoken.
To arms! etc.
Advance the flag of Dixie, etc.

Strong as lions, swift as eagles,
Back to their kennels hunt these beagles!
To arms! etc.
Cut the unequal bonds asunder!
Let them hence each other plunder!
To arms! etc.
Advance the flag of Dixie, etc.

Swear upon your country's altar,
Never to submit or falter;
To arms! etc.
Till the spoilers are defeated,
Till the Lord's work is completed.
To arms! etc.
Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.

Halt not till our Federation
Secures among earth's Powers its station!
To arms! etc.
Then at peace, and crowned with glory,
Hear your children tell the story!
To arms! etc.
Advance the flag of Dixie etc.

If the loved ones weep in sadness,
Victory shall bring them gladness;
To arms! etc.
Exultant pride soon banish sorrow;
Smiles chase tears away to-morrow.
To arms! etc.
Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.

 

E

THE EMPTY SLEEVE.
By Dr. J. R. Bagby, of Virginia.

Tom, old fellow, I grieve to see
The sleeve hanging loose at your side;
The arm you lost was worth to me
Every Yankee that ever died,
But you don't mind it at all,
You swear you've a beautiful stump,
And laugh at that damnable ball—
Tom, I knew you were always a trump.

A good right arm, a nervy hand,
A wrist as strong as a sapling oak,
Buried deep in the Malvern sand—
To laugh at that is a sorry joke.
 Never again your iron grip
Shall I feel in my shrinking palm—
Tom, Tom, I see your trembling lip;
All within is not calm.

Well! the arm is gone, it is true;
But the one that is nearest the heart
Is left—and that's as good as two;
Tom, old fellow, what makes you start?
Why, man, she thinks that empty sleeve
A badge of honor; so do I,
And all of us—I do believe
The fellow is going to cry!

"She deserves a perfect man," you say;
"You were not worth her in your prime;"
Tom! the arm that has turned to clay,
Your whole body has made sublime;
For you have placed in the Malvern earth
The proof and pledge of a noble life——
And the rest, henceforward of higher worth
Will be dearer than all to your wife,

I see the people in the street
Look at your sleeve with kindling eyes;
And you know, Tom, there's naught so sweet
As homage shown in mute surmise.
Bravely your arm in battle strove,
Freely for Freedom's sake you gave it;
It has perished—but a nation's love
In proud remembrance will save it

Go to your sweetheart, then, forthwith—
You're a fool for staying so long—
Woman's love you'll find no myth,
But a truth—living, tender, strong.
And when around her slender belt
Your left is clasped in fond embrace,
Your right will thrill, as if it felt,
In its grave, the usurper's place.

As I look through the coming years,
I see a one-armed married man;
A little woman, with smiles and tears,
Is helping as hard as she can
To put on his coat, to pin his sleeve,
Tie his cravat, and cut his food;
And I say, as these fancies I weave,
"That is Tom, and the woman he wooed.

The years roll on, and then I see
A wedding picture, bright and fair;
I look closer, and it's plain to me
That is Tom with the silver hair.
He gives away the lovely bride,
And the guests linger, loathe to leave
The house of him in whom they pride—
"Brave old Tom with the empty sleeve."

EULOGY OF THE DEAD.
By B. F. Porter, Op Alabama.

"Weep not for the dead; neither beinoan him."Jeremiah.
weep not for the dead,
Whose blood for freedom shed,
Is hallowed evermore!
Who on the battle-field
Could die—but never yield!
Oh, bemoan them never more
They live immortal in their gore!

Oh, what is it to die
Midst shouts of victory,
Our rights and home defending!
Oh! what, were fame and life
Gained in that basest strife
For tyrants' power contending,
Our country's bosom rending!

Oh! dead of red Manassas!
Oh! dead of Shiloh's fray!
Oh! victors of the Richmond field!
Dead on your mother's breast,
You live in glorious rest!
Each on his honored shield,
Immortal in each bloody field!

Oh ! sons of noble mothers!
Oh! youth of maiden lovers!
Oh! husbands of chaste wives!
Though asleep in beds of gore,
You return, oh! never more;
Still immortal are your lives!
Immortal mothers! lovers! wives!

How blest is he who draws
His sword in freedom's cause!
Though dead on battle-field,
Forever to his tomb
Shall youthful heroes come,
Their hearts for freedom steeled,
And learn to die on battle-field.

As at Thermopylae,
Grecian child of liberty;
Swears to despot ne'er to yield—
Here, by our glorious dead,
Let's revenge the blood they've shed,
Or die on bloody field,
By the sons who scorned to yield!

Oh! mothers! lovers! wives!
Oh! weep no more—our lives
Are our country's evermore!
More glorious in your graves,
Than if living Lincoln's slaves,
Ye will perish never more,
Martyred on our fields of gore!

 

 

F

 

G

GENDRON PALMER, OF THE HOLCOMBE LEGION.
By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama.

He sleeps upon Virginia's strand,
While comrades of the Legion stand
With arms reversed—a mournful band
Around his early bier!
His war-horse paws the shaking ground,
The volleys ring—they close around
And on the white brow, laurel-bound,
Falls many a soldier's tear.

Up, stricken mourners! look on high,
Loud anthems rend the echoing sky,
Re-born where heroes never die—
The warrior is at rest!
Gone is the weary, pain-traced frown;
Life's march is o'er, his arms cast down,
His plumes replaced by shining crown,
The red cross on his breast!

Though Gendron's arm is with the dust,
Let not his blood-stained weapon rust,
Bequeathed to one who'll bear the trust,
Where Southern banners fly
Some brave, who followed where he led
Aye, swear him o'er the martyred dead,
To avenge each drop of blood he shed.
Or, like him, bravely die!


He deemed a death for honor sweet,
And thus he fell—'Tis doubly meet,
Our flag should be his winding-sheet,
Proud banner of the free!
Oh, let his honored form be laid
Beneath the loved Palmetto's shade;
His praises sung by Southern maid,

While flows the broad Santee!
We come around his urn to twine
Sweet clusters of the jasmine vine,
Culled where our tropic sunbeams shine,
From skies deep-dyed and bright;
And, kneeling, vow no right to yield!
On, brothers, on ! —Fight ! "win the field!
Or dead return on battered shield,
As martyrs for the right!

Where camp-fires light the reddened sod,
The grief-bowed Legion kneel to God,
In Palmer's name, and by his blood,
They swell the battle-cry;
We'll sheathe no more our dripping steel,
'Till tyrants Southern vengeance feel,
And menial hordes as suppliants kneel,
Or, terror-stricken, fly!

 

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 that 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 their 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!


GRAVE OF ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON.
By J. B. Synnott.

The Lone Star State secretes the clay
Of him who led on Shiloh's field,
Where mourning wives will stop to pray,
And maids a weeping tribute yield.

In after time, when spleen and strife
Their madd'ning flame shall have expired,
The noble deeds that gemm'd this life
By Age and Youth will be admired.

As o'er the stream the boatmen rove
By Pittsburg Bend at early Spring,
They'll show with moist'ning eye the grave
Where havoc spread her sable wing.

There, 'neath the budding foliage green,
Ere Night evolved her dewy breath,
While Vict'ry smiled upon the scene,
Our Chieftan met the blow of death.

Great men to come will bless the brave;
The soldier, bronzed in War's career,
Shall weave a chaplet o'er his grave,
While Mem'ry drops the glist'ning tear.

Though envy wag her scorpion tongue,
The march of Time shall find his fame;
Where Bravery's loved and Glory's sung,
There children's lips shall lisp his name.

THE GUERRILLAS: A SOUTHERN WAR SONG.
Composed in the Yankee Bastille.
By S. Teacle Wallis, of Maryland.

"A Wake! and to horse, my brother!
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!

"From far-off conquered cities
Comes a voice of 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,
Out mothers and daughters fly;
I've seen where the little children
Sank down in the furrows to die.

"On the banks of the battle-stained river
I stood, as the moonlight shone,
And it glared on the face of my brother,
As the sad wave swept him on!
Where my home was glad are ashes;
And horrors and shame had been there—
For I found, on the fallen lintel,
This tress of my wife's torn hair.

"They are turning the slaves upon us,
And, with more than the fiend's worst art,
Have uncovered the fire of the savage,
That slept in his untaught heart.
The ties to our heart 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,
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 the God who shines there,
Whether deeds like these shall be done!

"Whenever the vandal cometh,
Press home to his heart with your steel,
And when at his bosom you cannot,
Like a serpent, go strike at his heel.
Through thicket and wood go hunt him,
Creep up to his camp fireside,
And let ten of his corpses blacken,
Where one of our brothers hath died.

In his fainting, footsore marches,
In his flight from the stricken fray,
In the snare of the lonely ambush,
The debts we owe him pay.
In God's hand, alone, is vengeance!
But He strikes with the hands of men,
And His blight would wither our manhood,
If we smite not the smiter again.

"By the graves where our fathers slumbered!
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 hilt it will 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 of their hearts made echo
To the wrath in their burning words.
There's weeping in all New England,
And by Schuylkill's banks a knell,
And the widows there, and the orphans,
How the oath was kept can tell.

 

H

 

I

IMOGEN.
By General John B. Magruder.


Wake! dearest, wake! 'tis thy lover who calls, Imogen,
"List! dearest, list! the dew gently falls, Imogen,
Arise to thy lattice, the moon is asleep,
The bright stars above us their bright vigils keep.

Chorus.

Then fear not, my Imogen,
Thou'rt dearer than life!
The heart of the soldier is the home of the wife, Imogen,
The heart of the soldier is the home of the wife.

Thy steed is impatient his mistress to bear, Imogen,
Home to her lover, on the prairie afar, Imogen,
Belov'd as a maiden, adored as a wife,
Thou shalt he forever the star of my life !—Chorus.

 

THE IRREPRESSIBLE CONFLICT.

Then welcome be it, if indeed it be
The Irrepressible Conflict! Let it come;
There will be mitigation of the doom,
If, battling to the last, our sires shall see
Their sons contending for the homes made free
In ancient conflict with the foreign foe!
If those who call us brethren strike the blow;
No common conflict shall the invader know!
War to the knife, and to the last, until
The sacred land we keep shall overflow
With blood as sacred—valley, wave, and hill,
Or the last enemy finds his bloody grave!
Aye! welcome to your graves—or ours! The brave
May perish, but ye shall not bind one slave.

J 

 

K

KENTUCKY REQUIRED TO YIELD HER ARMS.
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 yoeman,
If still ye would be free!

Ay, 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?"

 

L

"THE LAND OF KING COTTON."
Air—" Red, White, and Blue."
By J. Augustine Signaigo.

Oh,
Dixie, dear land of King Cotton,
"The home of the brave and the free,"
A nation by freedom begotten,
The terror of despots to be;
Wherever thy banner is streaming,
Base tyranny quails at thy feet,
And liberty's sunlight is beaming,
In splendor of majesty sweet

Chorus:

Three cheers for our army so true,
Three cheers for Price, Johnston, and Lee;
Beauregard and our Davis forever,
The pride of the brave and the free!

When Liberty sounds her war-rattle,
Demanding her right and her due,
The first land that rallies to battle
Is Dixie, the shrine of the true;
Thick as leaves of the forest in summer,
Her brave sons will rise on each plain,
And then strike, until each Vandal comer
Lies dead on the soil he would stain.

Chorus.—Three cheers, etc.

May the names of the dead that we cherish,
Fill memory's cup to the brim;
May the laurels they've won never perish,
"Nor star of their glory grow dim;"
May the States of the South never sever,
But the champions of freedom e'er be;
May they flourish Confederate forever,
The boast of the brave and the free.

Chorus.—Three cheers, etc.

LINCOLN'S TROOPS.
By A. G. Goodlett.

LIncoln's troops, infatuated fools,
Taught in Abolition schools,
Are coming South to pull their triggers,
Kill our boys and free our niggers.

But how cowardly they will feel
When first approaching Southern steel
With one hurrah! we'll sally forth
And kill those rascals of the North.

Lincoln, in a fit of frenzy,
Will be seized with influenza.
His care's so great he can't be civil,
He'll follow John Brown to the devil.

 

"LITTLE GIFFIN."
By Dr. Francis O. Ticknor.

Out of the focal and foremost fire,
Out of the hospital walls as dire,
Smitten of grapeshot and gangrene
(Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen),
Specter such as we seldom see,
Little Giffin of Tennessee.

"Take him and welcome !" the surgeon said;
"Much your doctor can help the dead!"
And so we took him and brought him where
The balm was sweet on the summer air;
And we laid him down on a wholesome bed
Utter Lazarus, heel to head!

Weary War with the bated breath,
Skeleton boy against skeleton Death,
Months of torture, how many such!
Weary weeks of the stick and crutch!
Still a glint of the steel-blue eye
Spoke of the spirit that wouldn't die—

And didn't; nay, more! in death's despite,
The crippled skeleton learned to write!
"Dear Mother," at first, of course, and then,
Dear Captain," inquiring about the " men."
Captain's answer: "Of eight and five,
Giffin and I are left alive."

"Johnston's pressed at the front, they say!"
Little Giffin was up and away;
A tear, his first, as he bade good-bye,
Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye.
"I'll write, if spared." There was news of a fight,
But none of Giffin! he did not write!

I sometimes fancy that were I king
Of the princely Knights of the Golden Ring,
With the song of the minstrel in mine ear,
And the tender legend that trembles here,
I'd give the best on his bended knee,
The whitest soul of chivalry,
For little Giffin of Tennessee.

 

THE LONE SENTREY
By James R. Randall.

"Twas in 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 dreamful eyes seemed hoarding up
Some unaccomplished vow.
The wistful glance peered o'er the plains
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;
Richmond and Sharpsburg thundered by
With that tremendous fight
Which gave him to the angel hosts
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.

 

M

MANASSAS.
By Catherine M. Waxfield.

They have met at last—as storm-clouds meet in heaven;
And the Northmen, back and bleeding, have been driven;
And their thunders have been stilled,
And their leaders crushed or killed,
And their ranks, with terror thrilled, rent and riven!

Like the leaves of Vallambrosa they are lying;
In the moonlight, in the midnight, dead and dying;
Like those leaves before the gale,
Swept their legions, wild and pale:
While the host that made them quail stood, defying.

When aloft in morning sunlight flags were flaunted,
And "swift vengeance on the rebel " proudly vaunted
Little did they think that night
Should close upon their shameful flight,
And rebels, victors in the fight, stand undaunted.

But peace to those who perished in our passes!
Light be the earth above them! green the grasses!
Long shall Northmen rue the day,
When they met our stern array,
And shrunk from battle's wild affray at Manassas!

 

"THE MARYLAND LINE."
By J. D. M'Cabe, Jr.

"By old Potomac's rushing tide,
Our bayonets are gleaming;
And o'er the bounding waters wide
We gaze, while tears are streaming.
The distant hills of Maryland
Rise sadly up before us
And tyrant bands have chained our land,
Our mother proud that bore us.

Our proud old mother's queenly head
Is bowed in subjugation;
With her children's blood her soil is red,
And fiends in exultation
Taunt her with shame as they bind her chains,
While her heart is torn with anguish;
Old mother, on famed Manassas' plains
Our vengeance did not languish.

We thought of your wrongs as on we rushed,
'Mid shot and shell appalling;
We heard your voice as it upward gush'd,
From the Maryland life-blood falling.
No pity we knew! Did they mercy show
When they bound the mother that bore us?
But we scattered death 'mid the dastard foe
Till they, shrieking, fled before us.

We mourn for our brothers brave that fell
On that field so stern and gory;
But their spirits rose with our triumph yell
To the heavenly realms of glory.
And their bodies rest on the hard-won field-
By their love so true and tender,
We'll keep the prize they would not yield,
We'll die, but we'll not surrender.

 

N

"NELLIE GRAY."

'There's a low green valley on the old Kentucky shore,
There I've whiled many happy hours away;
Sitting and singing in my little cabin door,
Where lived my darling Nellie Gray.

Chorus:
Oh, my poor Nellie Gray,
They have taken you away
And I'll never see my darling any more,
I'm sitting by the river,
And I'm watching all the day,
For you've gone from my old Kentucky shore.

When the moon had climbed the mountains,
And the stars were shining too,
Then I'd take my darling Nellie Gray,
And we'd float down the river
In our little red canoe
While my banjo sweetly I would play.—Chorus.

My canoe is under water,
And my banjo is unstrung,
I'm tired of living any more.
My eyes shall look downward,
And my song shall be unsung
If she's gone from my old Kentucky shore.—Chorus.

My eyes are getting blinded
And I cannot see my way.
Hark! there is someone knocking at the door.
Oh, I hear the angels calling,
And I see my Nellie Gray.
Farewell, to the old Kentucky shore.—Chorus.

 

"NOT DOUBTFUL OF YOUR FATHERLAND.

Not doubtful of your fatherland,
Or of the God who gave it;
On, Southrons! 'gainst the hireling band
That struggle to enslave it;
Ring boldly out
Your battle-shout,
Charge fiercely 'gainst these felon hordes:
One hour of strife
Is freedom's life,
And glory hangs upon your swords!

A thousand mothers' matron eyes,
Wives, sisters, daughters weeping,
Watch, where your virgin banner flies,
To battle fiercely sweeping:
Though science fails,
The steel prevails,
When hands that wield, own hearts of oak:
These, though the wall of stone may fall,
Grow stronger with each hostile stroke.

The faith that feels its cause as true,
The virtue to maintain it;
The soul to brave, the will to do,—
These seek the fight, and gain it!
The precious prize
Before your eyes,
The all that life conceives of charm,
Home, freedom, life,Child, sister, wife,
All rest upon your soul and arm!

And what the foe, the felon race,
That seek your subjugation?
The scum of Europe, her disgrace,
The lepers of the nation.
And what the spoilThat tempts their toil,
The bait that goads them on to fight?
Lust, crime, and blood,Each fiendish mood
That prompts and follows appetite.

Shall such prevail, and shall you fail,
Asserting cause so holy?
With souls of might, go, seek the fight,
And crush these wretches lowly.
On, with the cry,
To do or die,
As did, in darker days, your sires,
Nor stay the blow,
Till every foe,
Down stricken, in your path, expires!

O

"OH NO, HE'LL NOT NEED THEM AGAIN."

Oh, no! he'll not need them again
No more will he wake to behold
The splendor and fame of his men,
The tale of his victories told!
No more will he wake from that sleep
Which he sleeps in his glory and fame,
While his comrades are left here to weep
Over Cleburne, his grave and his name.

Oh, no! he'll not need them again;
No more will his banner be spread
O'er the field of his gallantry's fame
The soldier's proud spirit is fled!
The soldier who rose 'mid applause,
From the humblemost place in the van
I sing not in praise of the cause
But rather in praise of the man.

Oh, no! he'll not need them again;
He has fought his last battle without them.
For barefoot he, too, must go in,
While barefoot stood comrades about him;
And barefoot they proudly marched in,
With blood flowing fast from their feet;
They thought of the past victories won,
And the foes that they now were to meet.

Oh, no! he'll not need them again;
He is leading his men to the charge,
Unheeding the shells, or the slain,
Or the showers of the bullets at large
On the right, on the left, on the flanks,
He dashingly pushes his way,
While with cheers, double-quick and in ranks,
His soldiers all followed that day.

Oh, no! he'll not need them again;
He falls from his horse to the ground!
Oh, anguish! oh, sorrow! oh, pain!
In the brave hearts that gathered around.
He breathes not of grief, nor a sigh
On the breast where he pillowed his head,
Ere he fix'd his last gaze upon high
"I'm killed, boys, but fight it out," said.

Oh, no! he'll not need them again;
But treasure them up for his sake;
And oh! should you sing a refrain .
Of the memories they still must awake,
Sing it soft as the summer-eve breeze,
Let it sound as refreshing and clear;
Tho' grief-born, there's that which can please
In thoughts that are gemmed with a tear.

OLD MOULTRIE.
By Catherine Gendron Poyas, of Charleston.

'tHe splendor falls on bannered walls
Of ancient Moultrie, great in story;
And flushes now his scar-seamed brow,
With rays of golden glory!
Great in his old renown,
Great in the honor thrown
Around him by the foe,
Had sworn to lay him low!

The glory falls—historic walls
Too weak to cover foes insulting,
Become a tower—a sheltering bower—
A theme of joy exulting;
God, merciful and great,
Preserved the high estate
Of Moultrie, by His power
Through the fierce battle-hour!

The splendor fell—his banners swell
Majestic forth to catch the shower;
Our own loved blue receives anew
A rich immortal dower!
Adown the triple bars
Of its companion, spars
Of golden glory stream;
On seven-rayed circlet beam I

The glory fells—but not on walls
Of Sumter deemed the post of duty;
A brilliant sphere, it circles clear
The harbor in its beauty;
Holding in its embrace
The city's queenly grace;
Stern battery and tower,
Of manly strength and power.

But brightest falls on Moultrie's walls,
Forever there to rest in glory,
A hallowed light—on buttress height—
Oh, fort, beloved and hoary!
Rest there and tell that faith
Shall never suffer scaith;
Rest there—and glow afar—
Hope's ever-burning star!


ONLY ONE KILLED.
By Julia L. Keyes, Montgomery, Alabama.

ONly one killed—in company B,
Twas a trifling loss—one man!
A charge of the bold and dashing Lee—
While merry enough it was to see
The enemy, as he ran.

Only one killed upon our side—
Once more to the field they turn.
Quietly now the horsemen ride—
And pause by the form of the one who died,
So bravely, as now we learn.

Their grief for the comrade loved and true
For a time was unconcealed;
They saw the bullet had pierced him through,
That his pain was brief—ah! very few
Die thus, on the battle-field.

The news has gone to his home, afar—
Of the short and gallant fight,
Of the noble deeds of the young La Var
Whose life went out as a falling star
In the skirmish of that night.

"Only one killed! It was my son,"
The widowed mother cried.
She turned but to clasp the sinking one,
Who heard not the words of the victory won,
But of him who had bravely died.

Ah! death to her were a sweet relief,
The bride of a single year.
Oh! would she might, with her weight of grief,
Lie down in the dust, with the autumn leaf -
Now trodden and brown and sere!

But no, she must bear through coming life
Her burden of silent woe,
The aged mother and youthful wife
Must live through a nation's bloody strife,
Sighing and waiting to go

Where the loved are meeting beyond the stars,
Are meeting no more to part.
They can smile once more through the crystal bars—
Where never more will the woe of wars
O'ershadow the loving heart.


ONLY A SOLDIER'S GRAVE.
By S. A. Jones, of Aberdeen, Mississippi.

Only a soldier's grave! Pass by,
For soldiers, like other mortals, die.
Parents he had—they are far away;
No sister weeps o'er the soldier's clay;
No brother comes, with a tearful eye:
It's only a soldier's grave—pass by.

True, he was loving, and young, and brave,
Though no glowing epitaph honors his grave;
No proud recital of virtues known,
Of griefs endured, or of triumphs won;
No tablet of marble, or obelisk high;—
Only a soldier's grave—pass by.

Yet bravely he wielded his sword in fight.
And he gave his life in the cause of right!
When his hope was high, and his youthful dream
As warm as the sunlight on yonder stream;
His heart unvexed by sorrow or sigh;—
Yet, 'tis only a soldier's grave — pass by.

Yet, should we mark it—the soldier's grave,
Some one may seek him in hope to save!
Some of the dear ones, far away,
Would bear him home to his native clay;
'Twere sad, indeed, should they wander nigh,
Find not the hillock, and pass him by.

"OUR CONFEDERATE DEAD."

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.

Perhaps 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 relics of a vanquished land
And light the torch of sanctifying fire.

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
Deep'ning 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.

OUR DEAD HEROES.
(Introduction by Morton Bryan Wharton, D. D.J)

'the angels above us hover,
And the breezes a requiem sing,
As we meet this day to cover,
Our dead with the flowers of Spring.
They were brave, they were true, devoted,
They died for their country's laws,
And Montgomery will e'er be noted
As the cradle of their cause.

The waves of the Alabama
Will no longer be seen to roll,
Ere the men of that mighty drama
Shall fade from memory's scroll.
The names of Lee and Davis
Shall gild the wing of time,
Their armies and their navies,
Be praised for deeds sublime!

Since then long years have vanished,
Their forms have gone to dust,
Their flags have all been banished,
Their swords have gone to rust.
But their souls are up in glory,
And now like angels gleam;
Last night their mystic story,
Came to me in a dream.

 

OUR FAITH IN '61.
By A. J. Requier.

"Nor yet one hundred years have flown
Since on this very spot,
The subjects of a sovereign throne
Liege-master of their lot
This high degree sped o'er the sea,
From council board and tent,
"No earthly power can rule the free
But by their own consent!"

For this, they fought as Saxons fight,
On bloody fields and long
Themselves the champions of the right,
And judges of the wrong;
For this their stainless knighthood wore
The branded rebel's name,
Until the starry cross they bore
Set all the skies aflame!

And States co-equal and distinct
Outshone the western sun,
By one great charter interlinked
Not blended into one;
Whose graven key that high decree
The grand inscription lent,
"No earthly power can rule the free
But by their own consent!"

Oh, sordid age, oh, ruthless rage!
Oh, sacrilegious wrong!
A deed to blast the record page,
And snap the strings of song;
In that great charter's name, a band
By grovelling greed enticed,
Whose warrant is the grasping hand
Of creeds without a Christ.

States that have trampled every pledge
Its crystal code contains,
Now give their swords a keener edge
To harness it with chains
To make a bond of brotherhood
The sanction and the seal,
By which to arm a rabble brood
With fratricidal steel.

Who, conscious that their cause is black,
In puling prose and rhyme,
Talk hatefully of love, and tack
Hypocrisy to crime;
Who smile and smite, engross the gorge
Or impotently frown;
And call us " rebels" with King George,
As if they wore his crown.

Most venal of a venal race,
Who think you cheat the sky
With every pharisaic face
And stimulated lie;
Round Freedom's lair, with weapons bare,
We greet the light divine
Of those who throned the goddess there,
And yet inspire the shrine.

Our loved ones' graves are at our feet,
Their homesteads at our back—
No belted Southron can retreat
With woman on his track;
Peal, bannered host, the proud decree
Which from your fathers went,
"No earthly power can rule the free
But by their own consent!"

OVER THE RIVER.
By Jane T. Cross.

We hail your "Stripes " and lessened "stars,"
As one may hail a neighbor;
Now forward move! no fear of jars,
With nothing but free labor;
And we will mind our slaves and farm,
And never wish you any harm,
But greet you—over the river.

The self-same language do we speak,
The same dear words we utter;
Then let's not make each other weak,
Nor 'gainst each other mutter;
But let each go his separate way,
And each will doff his hat, and say:
"I greet you—over the river!"

Our flags, almost the same, unfurl,
And nod across the border;
Ohio's waves between them curl—
Our stripe's a little broader;
May yours float out on every breeze,
And, in our wake, traverse all seas—
We greet you—over the river!

We part as friends of years should part,
With pleasant words and wishes,
And no desire is in our heart
For Lincoln's loaves and fishes:
"Farewell," we wave you from afar,
We like you best—just where you are—
And greet you—over the river!

 

P

THE PHANTOM HOST.
By Rev. Peronnean D. Hay.

"My form was wrapped in the slumber
Which steals from the heart its cares,
For my life was weary
With its barren waste of years;
But my soul, with rapid pinions,
Fled swift to the light which seems
From a phantom's sun and planets
For the dreamer in his dreams.

I stood in a wondrous woodland,
Where the sunlight nestled sweet
In the cups of snowy lilies
Which grew about my feet;
And while the Gothic forest arches
Stirred gently with the air
The lilies underneath them
Swung their censors pale in prayer.

I stood amazed and wondering,
And a grand memoriam strain
Came sweeping through the forest,
And died; then rose again.
It swelled in solemn measure,
Till my soul, with comfort blessed,
Sank down among the lilies
With folded wings to rest.

Then to that mystic music
Through the forest's twilight aisle
Passed a host with muffled footsteps
In martial rank and file;
And I knew those gray-clad figures,
Thus slowly passing by,
Were the souls of Southern soldiers
Who for freedom dared to die.

In front rode Sidney Johnston,
With a brow no longer wrung
By the vile and senseless slanders
Of a prurient rabble tongue;
And near him mighty Jackson,
With a placid front, as one
Whose warfare was accomplished,
Whose crown of glory won.

There Hill, too, pure and noble,
Passed in the spirit train,
For he joined the martyred army
From the South's last battle plain.
The next in order followed
The warrior-priest, great Polk,
With joy to meet his Master,
For he had nobly borne the yoke.

There Stuart, the bold, the daring,
With matchless Pelham rode;
With earnest, chastened faces,
They were looking up to God.
And Jenkins, glorious Jenkins,
With his patient, fearless eyes,
And the brave devoted Garnett,
Journeyed on to Paradise.

Before a shadowy squadron
Rode Morgan, keen and strong,
And I knew by his tranquil forehead
He'd forgotten every wrong.
There peerless Pegram marching
With a dauntless, martial tread,
And I breathed a sigh for the hero,
The young, the early dead.

'Mid spectral black-horse troopers
Passed Ashby's stalwart form,
With that proud, defiant bearing
Which so spurned the battle storm;
But his glance was mild and tender,
For in that Phantom Host
He dwelt with lingering fondness
On the brother he had lost.

Then strode the brave Maloney,
Kind, genial adjutant;
And next him walked the truthful,
The lion-hearted Gantt.
There to that solemn music
Passed a triad of the brave:
Lomax, Phelan, Alfred Pinckney—
All had found a soldier's grave.

They were young and gentle spirits,
But they quaffed the bitter cup,
For their country's flag was falling,
And they fell to lift it up.
And then passed in countless thousands
In that mighty phantom host
True hearts and noble patriots
Whose names on earth are lost.

There "the missing" found their places—
Those who vanished from our gaze,
Like brilliant, flashing meteors,
And were lost in glory's blaze.
Yes, they passed, that noble army—
They passed to meet their Lord:
And a voice within me whispered:
"They but march to their reward."

 

A PRAYER FOR PEACE.
By S. Teacle Wallis, of Maryland.


"peace
! Peace! God of our fathers grant us Peace!
Unto our cry of anguish and despair
Give ear and pity! From the lonely homes,
Where widowed beggary and orphaned woe
Fill their poor urns with tears; from trampled plaint,
Where the bright harvest Thou hast sent us rots—
The blood of them who should have garnered it
Calling to Thee—from fields of carnage, where
The foul-beaked vultures, sated, flap their wings
O'er crowded corpses, that but yesterday
Bore hearts of brother, beating high with love
And common hopes and pride, all blasted now—
Father of Mercies! not alone from these
Our prayer and wail are lifted. Not alone
Upon the battle's seared and desolate track!
Nor with the sword and flame, is it, O God,
That thou hast smitten us. Around our hearths,
And in the crowded streets and busy marts,-
Where echo whispers not the far-off strife
That slays our loved ones; in the solemn halls
Of safe and quiet counsel—nay, beneath
The temple-roofs that we have reared to Thee,
And 'mid their rising incense—God of Peace!

The curse of war is on us. Greed and hate
Hungering for gold and blood; Ambition, bred
Of passionate vanity and sordid lusts,
Mad with the base desire of tyrannous sway
Over men's souls and thoughts, have set their price
On human hecatombs, and sell and buy
Their sons and brothers for the shambles. Priests,
With white, anointed, supplicating hands,
From Sabbath unto Sabbath clasped to Thee,
Burn in their tingling pulses, to fling down
Thy censers and Thy cross, to clutch the throats
Of kinsmen, by whose cradles they were born,
Or grasp the hand of Herod, and go forth
Till Rachel hath no children left to slay.
The very name of Jesus, writ upon
Thy shrines beneath the spotless, outstretched wings
Of Thine Almighty Dove, is wrapt and hid
With bloody battle-flags, and from the spires
That rise above them angry banners flout
The skies to which they point, amid the clang
Of rolling war-songs tuned to mock Thy praise.

All things once prized and honored are forgot;
The freedom that we worshipped next to Thee;
The manhood that was freedom's spear and shield;
The proud, true heart; the brave, outspoken word,
Which might be stifled, but could never wear
The guise, whate'er the profit, of a lie;
All these are gone, and in their stead have come
The vices of the miser and the slave—
Scorning no shame that bringeth gold or power,
Knowing no love, or faith, or reverence,
Or sympathy, or tie, or aim, or hope,
Save as begun in self, and ending there.
With vipers like to these, oh! blessed God!
Scourge us no longer! Send us down, once more

Some shining seraph in Thy glory clad,
To wake the midnight of our sorrowing
With tidings of good-will and peace to men;
And if that star, that through the darkness led
Earth's wisdom the guide, not our folly now,
Oh, be the lightning Thine Evangelist,
With all its fiery, forked tongues, to speak
The unanswerable message of Thy will.

Peace! Peace! God of our fathers, grant us peace!
Peace to our hearts, and at Thine altars; peace
On the red waters and their blighted shores;
Peace for the 'leaguered cities, and the hosts
That watch and bleed around them and within,
Peace for the homeless and the fatherless;
Peace for the captive on his weary way,
And the mad crowds who jeer his helplessness;
For them that suffer, them that do the wrong
Sinning and sinned against. O God! for all;
For a distracted, torn, and bleeding land—
Speed the glad tidings! Give us, give us Peace!

 

PRESIDENT DAVIS.
By Jane T. H. Cross.

The cell is lonely, and the night
Has filled it with a darker gloom;
The little rays of friendly light,
Which through each crack and chink found room
To press in with their noiseless feet,
All merciful and fleet,
And bring, like Xoah's trembling dove,
God's silent messages of love—
These, too, are gone, sliut out and gone,
And that great heart is left alone.

Alone, with darkness and with woe,
Around him Freedom's temple lies,
Its arches crushed, its columns low,
The night-wind through its ruin sighs
Rash, cruel hands that temple razed,
Then stood the world amazed!
And now those hands—ah, ruthless deeds!
Their captive pierce—his brave heart bleeds;
And yet no groan
Is heard, no groan!
He suffers silently, alone.

For all his bright and happy home,
He has that cell, so drear and dark,
The narrow walls, for heaven's blue dome,
The clank of chains, for song of lark;
And for the grateful voice of friends—
That voice which ever lends
Its charm where human hearts are found—
He hears the key's dull, grating sound;
No heart is near,
No kind heart near,
No sigh of sympathy, no tear!

Oh, dream not thus, though true and good I
Unnumbered hearts on thee await,
By thee invisibly have stood,
Have crowded through thy prison-gate;
Nor dungeon bolts, nor dungeon bare,
Nor floating "stripes and stars,"
Nor glittering gun or bayonet,
Can ever cause us to forget
Our faith to thee,
Our love to thee,
Thou glorious soul! thou strong! thou free!

PRO MEMORIA.,
Air—There is rest for the weary.
By Ina M. Porter, of Indiana.

IT o! 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,
Nor 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.

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 sun-beguiling breeze,
From the soft Cuban seas,
With life-bestowing kiss wakes the pride of garden bowers
And lo! our city elms,
Have plumed with buds their helms,
And with tiny spears salute the coming on of flowers.

The promise of the Spring,
Is in every glancing wing
That tells its flight in song which shall long survive the
flight; And, mocking Winter's glooms,
Skies, air and earth grow blooms,
With charge as bless'd as ever came with passage of a night!

Ah! could our hearts but share
The promise rich and rare,
That welcomes life to rapture in each happy fond caress,
That makes each innocent thing
Put on its bloom and wing,
Singing for Spring to come to the realm she still would bless!

But, alas for us, no more
Shall the coming hour restore
The glory, sweet and wanted, of the seasons to our souls;
Even as the spring appears,
Her smiling makes our tears
While with each bitter memory the torrent o'er us rolls.

Even as our zephyrs sing
That they bring us in the Spring,
Even as our bird grows musical in ecstasy of flight—
We see the serpent crawl,With his slimy coat o'er all,
And blended with the song is the hissing of his blight.

We shudder at the blooms,
Which but serve to cover tombs—
At the very sweet of odors which blend venom with the
breath,
Sad shapes look out from trees,
And in sky and earth and breeze,
We behold but the aspect of a Horror worse than Death!

 

Q

 

R

THE RIFLEMAN'S FANCY SHOT.
By Charles Dawson Shanley.

RIfleman, shoot me a fancy shot,
Straight at that heart of yon prowling vedette;
Ring me a ball on the glittering spot
That shines on his breast like an amulet."

"Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead;
There's music around when my barrel's in tune."
Crack! went the rifle; the messenger sped,
And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.

"Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch
From yon victim some trinket to handsel first blood:
A button, a loop, or that luminous patch
That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud."

"Oh, captain! I staggered, and sank in my track,
When I gazed on the face of the fallen vedette;
For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back,
That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.

"But I snatched off the trinket—this locket of gold;
An inch from the centre my lead broke its way,
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,
Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."

"Ha! rifleman! fling me the locket—'tis she!
My brother's young bride; and the fallen dragoon
Was her husband. Hush, soldier !—'twas heaven's decree;
We must bury him there, by the light of the moon.

"But hark! the far bugles their warning unite;
War is a virtue, and weakness a sin;
There's a lurking and lopping around us to-night:
Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!"

 

S

SAVANNAH.
By Alethka S. Burroughs.

Thou hast not drooped thy stately head,
Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed!
Not like a lamb to slaughter led,
But with the lion's monarch tread,
Thou comest to thy battle bed,
Savannah! oh, Savannah!

Thine arm of flesh is girded strong;
The blue veins swell beneath thy wrong!
To thee, the triple cords belong,
Of woe, and death, and shameless wrong,
And spirit vaunted long, too long!
Savannah! oh, Savannah!

No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair;
Only the martyrs' blood is there;
It gleams upon thy bosom bare,
It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer,
And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear,
Savannah! oh, Savannah!

Thy clean white hand is opened wide
For weal or woe, thou Freedom bride,
The sword-sheath sparkles at thy" side,
Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide,
Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide,
Savannah! oh, Savannah!

What though the heavy storm-cloud lowers—
Still at thy feet the old oak towers;
Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers,
And things of beauty, love, or flowers,
Are smiling o'er this land of ours,
My sunny home, Savannah!

There is no film before thy sight—
Thou seest woe, and death, and night—
And blood upon thy banner bright;
But in thy full wrath's kindled might,
What carest thou for woe, or night?
My rebel home, Savannah

Come—for the crown is on thy head;
Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed,
Not like a lamb to slaughter led,
But with the lion's monarch tread,
Oh! come unto thy battle bed,
Savannah! oh, Savannah!

 

THE SILENT MARCH.

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 deeped 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 tho 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.

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.

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! Spring 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 jasmine 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!


"THE SOUTHERN CROSS."
By St. George Tucker, of Virginia.

f\& ! say can you see, through the gloom and the storm,
More bright foi the darkness, that pure constellation!
Like the symbol ot love and redemption its form,
As it points to the haven of hope for the nation.
Now 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,
On 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!

THE SOUTHERN HOMES IN RUIN.
By R. B. Vance, of N. C.

"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.

THE SOUTHERN REPUBLIC.
By Miss Thomas, Of Mississippi.

In the galaxy of nations,
A nation's flag's unfurled,
Transcending in its martial pride
The nations of the world.
Though born of war, baptized in blood,
Yet mighty from the time,
Like fabled phoenix, forth she stood
Dismembered, yet sublime.

And braver heart, and bolder hand,
Ne'er formed a fabric fair
As Southern wisdom can command,
And Southern valor rear.
Though kingdoms scorn to own her sway,
Or recognize her birth,
The land blood-bought for Liberty
Will reign supreme on earth.

Clime of the Sun! Homo of the Brave!
Thy sons are bold and free,
And pour life's crimson tide to save
Their birthright, Liberty!
Their fertile fields and sunny plains
That yield the wealth alone,
That's coveted for greedy gains
By despots—and a throne!

Proud country! battling, bleeding, torn,
Thy altars desolate;
Thy lovely dark-eyed daughters mourn
At war's relentless fate;
And widows' prayers, and orphans' tears,
Her homes will consecrate,
While more than brass or marble rears
The trophy of her great.

Oh! land that boasts each gallant name
Of Jackson, Johnson, Lee,
And hosts of valiant sons, whose fame
Extends beyond the sea;
Far rather let thy plains become,
From gulf to mountain cave,
One honored sepulchre and tomb,
Than we the tyrant's slave!

Fair, favored land! thou mayst be free;
Redeemed by blood and war;
Through agony and gloom we see
Thy hope—a glimmering star;
Thy banner, too, may proudly float,
A herald on the seas—
Thy deeds of daring worlds remote
Will emulate and praise!

But who can paint the impulse pure,
That thrills and nerves thy brave
To deeds of valor, that secure
The rights their fathers gave?
Oh! grieve not, hearts; her matchless slain,
Crowned with the warrior's wreath
From beds of fame their proud refrain
Was " Liberty or Death!"

SOUTHERN WAR HYMN.
By John A. Wagener, of South Carolina.

A Rise! arise! with arm of might,
Sons of our sunny home!
Gird on the sword for the sacred fight,
For the battle-hour hath come!
Arise! for the felon foe draws nigh
In battle's dread array;
To the front, ye brave! let the coward fly,
'Tis the hero that bides the fray!

Strike hot and hard, my noble band,
With the arm of fight and fire;
Strike fast for God and Fatherland,
For mother, and wife, and sire.
Though thunders roar and lightnings flash,
Oh! Southrons, never fear,
Ye shall turn the bolt with the sabre's clash,
And the shaft with the steely spear.

Bright blooms shall wave o'er the hero's grave,
While the craven finds no rest;
Thrice cursed the traitor, the slave, the knave,
While thrice is the hero blessed.
To the front in the fight, ye Southrons, stand
Brave spirits, with eagle eye,
And standing for God and for Fatherland,
Ye will gallantly do or die.

SPRING.
By Henry Timbod.

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air
Which dwells with all things fair,
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,
Is with us once again.

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court with green festoons
The banks of dark lagoons.

In the deep heart of every forest tree
The blood is all aglee,
And there's a look about the leafless bowers
As if they dreamed of flowers.

Yet still on every side appears the hand
Of Winter in the land,
Save where the maple reddens on the lawn,
Flushed by the season's dawn;

Or where, like those strange semblances we find
That age to childhood bind,
The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn,
The brown of Autumn corn.

As yet the turf is dark, although you know
That, not a span below,
A thousand germs are groping through the gloom,
And soon will burst their tomb.

Already, here and there, on frailest stems
Appear some azure gems.
Small as might deck, upon a gala clay.
The forehead of a fay"-

In gardens you may see, amid the dearth,
The crocus breaking earth;
And near the snowdrop, tender, white and green,
The violet in its screen.

But many gleams and shadows need must pass
Along the budding grass,
And weeks go by, before the enamored South
Shall kiss the rose's mouth.

Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn
In the sweet airs of morn;
One almost looks to see the very street
Grow purple at his feet.

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by
And brings, you know not why,
A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate

Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start,
If from a beech's heart
A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say
"Behold me! I am May!"

Ah! who would couple thoughts of war and crime
With such a blessed time!
Who in the west wind's aromatic breath
Could hear the call of Death!

Yet not more surely shall the Spring awake
The voice of wood and brake,
Than she shall rouse, for all her tranquil charms
A million men to arms.

There shall be deeper hues upon her plains
Than all her sunlight rains,
And every gladdening influence around
Can summon from the ground.

Oh! standing on this desecrated mould,
Methinks that I behold,
Lifting her bloody daisies up to God,
Spring, kneeling on the sod,

And calling with the voice of all her rills,
Upon the ancient hills,
To fall and crush the tyrants and the slaves
Who turn her meads to graves.


"STACK ARMS."
By Jos. Blyth Alston.

"Stack Arms!" I've gladly heard the cry
When, weary with the dusty tread
Of marching troops, as night drew nigh,
I sank upon my soldier bed,
And calmly slept; the starry dome
Of heaven's blue arch my canopy,
And mingled with my dreams of home,
The thoughts of Peace and Liberty.

"Stack Arms!" I've heard it, when the shout
Exulting, rang along our line,
Of foes hurled back in bloody rout,
Captured, dispersed; its tones divine
Then came to mine enraptured ear.
Guerdon of duty nobly done,
And glistening on my cheek the tear
Of grateful joy for victory won.

"Stack Arms!" In faltering accents, slow
And sad, it creeps from tongue to tongue.
A broken, murmuring wail of woe,
From manly hearts by anguish wrung,
Like victims of a midnight dream,
We move, we know not how nor why,
For life and hope but phantoms seem,
And it would be relief—to die!

"STONEWALL" JACKSON.
A Dirge.

Go to thy rest, great chieftain!
In the zenith of thy fame;
With the proud heart stilled and frozen,
No foeman e'er could tame;
With the eye that met the battle
As the eagle's meets the sun,
Kayless—beneath its marble lid,
Repose—thou mighty one!

Yet ill our cause could spare thee;
And harsh the blow of fate
That struck its staunchest pillar
From 'neath our dome of State.
Of thee, as of the Douglas,
We say with Scotland's king,
"There is not one to take his place
In all the knightly ring."

Thou wert the noblest captain
Of all that martial host
That front the haughty Northman,
And put to shame his boast.
Thou wert the strongest bulwark
To stay the tide of fight;
The name thy soldiers gave thee
Bore witness of thy might!

But we may not weep above thee;
This is no time for tears!
Thou wouldst not brook their shedding,
Oh! saint among thy peers!
Couldst thou speak from yonder heaven,
Above us smiling spread,
Thou wouldst not have us pause for grief,
On the blood-stained path we tread!

Not—while our homes in ashes
Lie smouldering on the sod!
Not—while our houseless women
Send up wild wails to God!
Not—while the mad fanatic
Strews ruin on his track!
Dare any Southron give the rein
To feeling, and look back;

No! Still the cry is "onward!"
This is no time for tears;
No! Still the word is "vengeance!"
Leave ruth for coming years.
We will snatch thy glorious banner
From thy dead and stiffening hand,
And high, 'mid battle's deadly storm,
We'll bear it through the land,

And all who mark it streaming—
Oh! soldier of the cross !—
Shall gird them with a fresh resolve
Sternly to avenge our loss;
Whilst thou, enrolled a martyr,
Thy sacred mission shown,
Shalt lay the record of our wrongs
Before the Eternal throne!

 

"STONEWALL" JACKSON.

"Who've ye got there ?" "Only a dying brother,"
" Hurt in the front just now."
"Good boy! he'll do.  Somebody tell his mother
Where he was killed, and how."

"Whom have you there ?" "A crippled courier, major,
Shot by mistake, we hear.
He was with Stonewall."  "Cruel work they've made here:
Quick with him to the rear!"

"Well, who comes next ? "Doctor, speak low, speak low, sir;
Don't let the men find out.
"It's Stonewall!" "God!"  "The brigade must not know, sir,
While there's a foe about."

Whom have we here shrouded in martial manner,
Crowned with a martyr's charm?
A grand dead hero in a living banner,
Born of his heart and arm.

The heart whereon his cause hung see how clingeth
That banner to his bier!
The arm wherewith his cause struck hark! how ringeth
His trumpet in their rear!

What have we left?  His glorious inspiration,
His prayers in council met.
Living, he laid the first stones of a nation;
And dead, he builds it yet.

"STONEWALL" JACKSON.
By H. L. Flash.

Nor 'midst 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 bore
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 his 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!

Oh, gracious God i not gainless is our loss;
A glorious sunbeam gilds Thy sternest frown;
And while his country staggers with the cross—
He rises with the crown!


THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE.
By Father Ryan.

Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright.
Flashed the sword of Lee!
Far in the front of the deadly fight,
High o'er the brave, in the cause of right,
Its stainlees sheen, like a beacon-light,
Led us to victory.

Out of its scabbard, where full long—
It slumbered peacefully—
Roused from its rest by the battle-song,
Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong,
Guarding the right, and avenging the wrong—
Gleamed that sword of Lee!

Forth from its scabbard, high in air,
Beneath Virginia's sky—
And they who saw it gleaming there,
And knew who bore it, knelt to swear,
That where the sword led they would dare
To follow and to die.

Out of its scabbard! Never hand
Waved sword from stain as free,
Nor purer sword led braver band,
Nor braver bled for a brighter land,
Nor brighter land had a cause as grand,
Nor cause, a chief like Lee!

Forth from its scabbard! how we prayed
That sword might victor be!
And when our triumph was delayed,
And many a heart grew sore afraid,
We still hoped on, while gleamed the blade
Of noble Robert Lee!

Forth from its scabbard! all in vain!
Forth flashed the sword of Lee! '
Tis shrouded now in its sheath again,
It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain,
Defeated, yet without a stain,
Proudly and peacefully.

 

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"TELL THE BOYS THE WAR IS ENDED."
By Emily J. Moore.

 “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 cannon roaring
Could not rouse him by their din;
He to better worlds was soaring,
Far from war, and pain, and sin.

"THERE'S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET."

"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!"

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 armed 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 roar 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.

 

TO LILY.
By Morton Bryan Wharton, D. D.

I Thought you an angel and wooed you alone,
As the dearest of idols earth ever has known;
Yes, you were my altar, and at the loved shrine
I've paid the pure homage of worship divine.
My soul has delighted your image to keep,
Your form has been near me awake and asleep,
Your eyes, Heaven bless them, so bright and so blue,
Along my dark pathway have thrown their soft hue.
Emotions of rapture would rise in my breast
When your smile, so angelic, has cheered me and blest.
With motives the purest my soul could command
I sought, I entreated, your coveted hand,
For of all the dear treasures that mortals could know
You alone upon me could the richest bestow.
You told me you loved me, I thought you sincere,
My fears were then banished, my sky was then clear.
I did not, I would not, I could not believe
That my own darling Lily could ever deceive.
Yes, you told me in words which I ne'er can forget
(Remembered, alas! with the deepest regret)
That through life you with me would most willingly share
Each pleasure, each sorrow, each blessing, and care.
Oh! you said that whatever my lot might betide
You were mine,—soon to be my companion and bride.
But now in the day of apparent success,
While all was propitious our union to bless,
While my pathway lay scattered with flowers so rare,
And the Lily the richest of all that were there,
While my prayers were ascending to Father and Son
To bless and preserve us forever as one,
You tell me in language how coldly expressed!
That you were "not in earnest but wholly in jest."
Oh, take those words back, though true they may be,
And have not the heart to confess them to me,
"I am just like my sex," have the candor to say,
"I am false, I am fickle, I'm treacherous as they,"
But though, my loved girl, you have broken my heart,
And do not e'en ask of the ruin a part,
Yet know that you've shattered a spirit as true
As e'er was deceived by a lady like you;
For never, no, never, beneath the blue sky,
Will you meet with a lover so faithful as I.
Oh, had I but honored my Saviour and Lord,
In fervent affection, in deed, or in word,
With half the devotion to you I have paid,
My hopes were not blighted, my love not betrayed.
Yet, yet, I forgive you, and leave you as free
As the bird that, uncaged, flies over the sea,
And in my sad bosom shall linger the prayer
That Heaven may grant you a pardon as fair.


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"WHAT THE VILLAGE BELL SAID."
By John G. M'lemoee, of South Carolina.

FULL many a year in the village church,
Above the world have I made my home;
And happier there, than if I had hung
High up in the air in a golden dome;
For I have tolled
When the slow hearse rolled
Its burden sad to my door;
And 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.

 

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YE CAVALIERS OF DIXIE.
By Benj. F. Porter, 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 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 the 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.

"YE MEN OF ALABAMA!"
By John D. Phelan

Ye men of Alabama,
Awake, arise, awake!
And rend the coils asunder
Of this Abolition snake.
If another fold he fastens
If this final coil he plies
In the cold clasp of hate and power
Fair Alabama dies.

Though round your lower limbs and waist
His deadly coils I see,
Yet, yet, thank Heaven! your head and arms,
And good right hand are free;
And in that hand there glistens—
O God ! what joy to feel!—
A polished blade, full sharp and keen,
Of tempered State Rights steel.

Now, by the free-born sires
From whose brave loins ye sprung!
And by the noble mothers
At whose fond breasts ye hung!
And by your wives and daughters,
And by the ills they dread,
Drive deep that good Secession steel
Right through the Monster's head.

This serpent Abolition
Has been coiling on for years;
We have reasoned, we have threatened,
We have begged almost with tears:
Now, away, away with Union,
Since on our Southern soil
The only union left us
Is an anaconda's coil.

Brave, little South Carolina
Will strike the self-same blow,
And Florida, and Georgia,
And Mississippi, too;
And Arkansas, and Texas;
And at her death, I ween,
The head will fall beneath the blows
Of all the brave Fifteen.

In this our day of trial,
Let feuds and factions cease,
Until above this howling storm
We see the sign of Peace.
Let Southern men, like brothers,
In solid phalanx stand,
And poise their spears, and lock their shields,
To guard their native land.

The love that for the Union
Once in our bosoms beat,
From insult and from injury
Has turned to scorn and hate;
And the banner of Secession
To-day we lift on high,
Resolved, beneath that sacred flag,
To conquer, or TO DIE!

 

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