A Parliamentary Debate.
By John R. Thompson, of Richmond, Virginia.
All ye who with credulity the whispers hear of fancy,
Or yet pursue with eagerness hope's wild extravagancy,
Who dream that England soon will drop her long miscalled neutrality,
And give us, with a hearty shake, the hand of nationality,
Read, as we give, with little fault of statement or omission,
The next debate in parliament on Southern Recognition;
They're all so much alike, indeed, that one can write it off, I see,
As truly as the Times' report, without the gift of prophecy.
Not yet, not yet to interfere does England see occasion,
But treats our good commissioner with coolness and evasion;
Such coolness in the premises, that really 'tis refrigerant
To think that two long years ago she called us a belligerent.
But, further, Downing-street is dumb, the premier deaf to reason,
As deaf as is the Morning Post, both in and out of season;
The working men of Lancashire are all reduced to beggary,
And yet they will not listen unto Roebuck or to Gregory,
"Or any other man," to-day, who counsels interfering,
While all who speak on t'other side obtain a ready hearing--
As, par exemple, Mr. Bright, that pink of all propriety,
That meek and mild disciple of the blessed Peace Society.
"Why, let 'em fight," says Mr. Bright, "those Southerners, I hate 'em,
And hope the Black Republicans will soon exterminate 'em;
If freedom can't rebellion crush, pray tell me what's the use of her?"
And so he chuckles o'er the fray as gleefully as Lucifer.
Enough of him--an abler man demands our close attention--
The Maximus Apollo of strict non-intervention--
With pitiless severity, though decorous and calm his tone,
Thus spake the "old man eloquent," the puissant Earl of Palmerston:
"What though the land run red with blood, what though the lurid flashes
Of cannon light, at dead of night, a mournful heap of ashes
Where many an ancient mansion stood--what though the robber pillages
The sacred home, the house of God, in twice a hundred villages.
"What though a fiendish, nameless wrong, that makes revenge a duty,
Is daily done" (O Lord, how long!) "to tenderness and beauty!"
(And who shall tell this deed of hell, how deadlier far a curse it is
Than even pulling temples down and burning universities)?
"Let arts decay, let millions fall, aye, let freedom perish,
With all that in the western world men fain would love and cherish;
Let universal ruin there become a sad reality:
We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous neutrality."
Oh, Pam! oh, Pam! hast ever read what's writ in holy pages,
How blessed the peace-makers are, God's children of the ages?
Perhaps you think the promise sweet was nothing but a platitude;
'Tis clear that you have no concern in that divine beatitude.
But "hear! hear! hear!" another peer, that mighty man of muscle,
Is on his legs, what slender pegs! "ye noble Earl" of Russell;
Thus might he speak, did not of speech his shrewd reserve the folly see,
And thus unfold the subtle plan of England's secret policy.
"John Bright was right, yes, let 'em fight, these fools across the water,
'Tis no affair at all of ours, their carnival of slaughter;
The Christian world, indeed, may say we ought not to allow it, sirs,
But still 'tis music in our ears, this roar of Yankee howitzers.
"A word or two of sympathy, that costs us not a penny,
We give the gallant Southerners, the few against the many;
We say their noble fortitude of final triumph presages,
And praise, in Blackwood's Magazine, Jeff. Davis and his messages.
"Of course we claim the shining fame of glorious Stonewall Jackson,
Who typifies the English race, a sterling Anglo-Saxon;
To bravest song his deeds belong, to Clio and Melpomene"--
(And why not for a British stream demand the Chickahominy?)
"But for the cause in which he fell we cannot lift a finger,
'Tis idle on the question any longer here to linger;
'Tis true the South has freely bled, her sorrows are Homeric, oh!
Her case is like to his of old who journeyed unto Jericho.
"The thieves have stripped and bruised, although as yet they have not
bound her,
We'd like to see her slay 'em all to right and left around her;
We shouldn't cry in parliament if Lee should cross the Raritan,
But England never yet was known to play the Good Samaritan.
"And so we pass the other side, and leave them to their glory,
To give new proofs of manliness, new scenes for song and story;
These honeyed words of compliment may possibly bamboozle 'em,
But ere we intervene, you know, we'll see 'em in--Jerusalem.
"Yes, let 'em fight, till both are brought to hopeless desolation,
Till wolves troop round the cottage door in one and t'other nation,
Till, worn and broken down, the South shall prove no more refractory,
And rust eats up the silent looms of every Yankee factory.
"Till bursts no more the cotton boll o'er fields of Carolina,
And fills with snowy flosses the dusky hands of Dinah;
Till war has dealt its final blow, and Mr. Seward's knavery
Has put an end in all the land to freedom and to slavery.
"The grim Bastile, the rack, the wheel, without remorse or pity,
May flourish with the guillotine in every Yankee city;
No matter should old Abe revive the brazen bull of Phalaris,
'Tis no concern at all of ours"--(sensation in the galleries.)
"So shall our 'merry England' thrive on trans-Atlantic troubles,
While India, on her distant plains, her crop of cotton doubles;
And just so long as North or South shall show the least vitality,
We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous neutrality."
Your speech, my lord, might well become a Saxon legislator,
When the "fine old English gentleman" lived in a state of natur',
When Vikings quaffed from human skulls their fiery draughts of honey mead,
Long, long before the barons bold met tyrant John at Runnymede.
But 'tis a speech so plain, my lord, that all may understand it,
And so we quickly turn again to fight the Yankee bandit,
Convinced that we shall fairly win at last our nationality,
Without the help of Britain's arm, in spite of her neutrality.
Illustrated News.
Close the Ranks.
By John L. O'Sullivan.
The fell invader is before!
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
We'll hunt his legions from our shore,
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
Our wives, our children are behind,
Our mothers, sisters, dear and kind,
Their voices reach us on the wind,
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
Are we to bend to slavish yoke?
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
We'll bend when bends our Southern oak.
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
On with the line of serried steel,
We all can die, we none can kneel
To crouch beneath the Northern heel.
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
We kneel to God, and God alone.
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
One heart in all--all hearts as one.
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
For home, for country, truth and right,
We stand or fall in freedom's fight:
In such a cause the right is might.
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
We're here from every southern home.
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
Fond, weeping voices bade us come.
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks
The husband, brother, boy, and sire,
All burning with one holy fire--
Our country's love our only hire.
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
We cannot fail, we will not yield!
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
Our bosoms are our country's shield.
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
By Washington's immortal name,
By Stonewall Jackson's kindred fame,
Their souls, their deeds, their cause the same,
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
By all we hope, by all we love,
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
By home on earth, by Heaven above,
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
By all the tears, and heart's blood shed,
By all our hosts of martyred dead,
We'll conquer, or we'll share their bed.
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
The front may fall, the rear succeed,
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
We smile in triumph as we bleed,
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
Our Southern Cross above us waves,
Long shall it bless the sacred graves
Of those who died, but were not slaves.
Close the ranks! Close up the ranks!
The Sea-Kings of the South.
By Edward C. Bruce, of Winchester, Va.
Full many have sung of the victories our warriors have won,
From Bethel, by the eastern tide, to sunny Galveston,
On fair Potomac's classic shore, by sweeping Tennessee,
Hill, rock, and river shall tell forever the vengeance of the free.
The air still rings with the cannon-shot, with battle's breath is warm;
Still on the hills their swords have saved our legions wheel and form;
And Johnston, Beauregard, and Lee, with all their gallant train,
Wait yet at their head, in silence dread, the hour to charge again.
But a ruggeder field than the mountain-side--a broader field than the plain,
Is spread for the fight in the stormy wave and the globe-embracing main,
'Tis there the keel of the goodly ship must trace the fate of the land,
For the name ye write in the sea-foam white shall first and longest stand.
For centuries on centuries, since first the hallowed tree
Was launched by the lone mariner on some primeval sea,
No stouter stuff than the heart of oak, or tough elastic pine,
Had floated beyond the shallow shoal to pass the burning Line.
The Naiad and the Dryad met in billow and in spar;
The forest fought at Salamis, the grove at Trafalgar.
Old Tubalcain had sweated amain to forge the brand and ball;
But failed to frame the mighty hull that held enfortressed all.
Six thousand years had waited for our gallant tars to show
That iron was to ride the wave and timber sink below.
The waters bland that welcomed first the white man to our shore,
Columbus, of an iron world, the brave Buchanan bore.
Not gun for gun, but thirty to one, the odds he had to meet!
One craft, untried of wind or tide, to beard a haughty fleet!
Above her shattered relics now the billows break and pour;
But the glory of that wondrous day shall be hers for evermore.
See yonder speck on the mist afar, as dim as in a dream!
Anear it speeds, there are masts like reeds and a tossing plume of steam!
Fleet, fierce, and gaunt, with bows aslant, she dashes proudly on,
Whence and whither, her prey to gather, the foe shall learn anon.
Oh, broad and green is her hunting-park, and plentiful the game!
From the restless bay of old Biscay to the Carib' sea she came.
The catchers of the whale she caught; swift Ariel overhauled;
And made Hatteras know the hardest blow that ever a tar appalled.
She bears the name of a noble State, and sooth she bears it well.
To us she hath made it a word of pride, to the Northern ear a knell.
To the Puritan in the busy mart, the Puritan on his deck,
With "Alabama" visions start of ruin, woe, and wreck.
In vain his lubberly squadrons round her magic pathway swoop--
Admiral, captain, commodore, in gunboat, frigate, sloop.
Save to snatch a prize, or a foe chastise, as their feeble art she foils,
She will scorn a point from her course to veer, to baffle all their toils.
And bravely doth her sister-ship begin her young career.
Already hath her gentle name become a name of fear;
The name that breathes of the orange-bloom, of soft lagoons that roll
Round the home of the Roman of the West--the unconquered Seminole.
Like the albatross and the tropic-bird, forever on the wing,
For them nor night nor breaking morn may peace nor shelter bring.
All drooping from the weary cruise or shattered from the fight,
No dear home-haven opes to them its arms with welcome bright.
Then side by side, in our love and pride, be our men of the land and sea;
The fewer these, the sterner task, the greater their guerdon be!
The fairest wreaths of amaranth the fairest hands shall twine
For the brows of our preux chevaliers, the Bayards of the brine!
The "stars and bars" of our sturdy tars as gallantly shall wave
As long shall live in the storied page, or the spirit-stirring stave,
As hath the red cross of St. George or the raven-flag of Thor,
Or flag of the sea, whate'er it be, that ever unfurled to war.
Then flout full high to their parent sky those circled stars of ours,
Where'er the dark-hulled foeman floats, where'er his emblem towers!
Speak for the right, for the truth and light, from the gun's unmuzzled mouth,
And the fame of the Dane revive again, ye Vikings of the SOUTH!
Richmond Sentinel, March 30, 1863.
The Return.
Three years! I wonder if she'll know me?
I limp a little, and I left one arm
At Petersburg; and I am grown as brown
As the plump chestnuts on my little farm:
And I'm as shaggy as the chestnut burrs--
But ripe and sweet within, and wholly hers.
The darling! how I long to see her!
My heart outruns this feeble soldier pace,
For I remember, after I had left,
A little Charlie came to take my place.
Ah! how the laughing, three-year old, brown eyes--
His mother's eyes--will stare with pleased surprise!
Surely, they will be at the corner watching!
I sent them word that I should come to-night:
The birds all know it, for they crowd around,
Twittering their welcome with a wild delight;
And that old robin, with a halting wing--
I saved her life, three years ago last spring.
Three years! perhaps I am but dreaming!
For, like the pilgrim of the long ago,
I've tugged, a weary burden at my back,
Through summer's heat and winter's blinding snow;
Till now, I reach my home, my darling's breast,
There I can roll my burden off, and rest.
When morning came, the early rising sun
Laid his light fingers on a soldier sleeping--
Where a soft covering of bright green grass
Over two mounds was lightly creeping;
But waked him not: his was the rest eternal,
Where the brown eyes reflected love supernal.
Our Christmas Hymn.
By John Dickson Bruns, M.D., of Charleston, S.C.
"Good-will and peace! peace and good-will!"
The burden of the Advent song,
What time the love-charmed waves grew still
To hearken to the shining throng;
The wondering shepherds heard the strain
Who watched by night the slumbering fleece,
The deep skies echoed the refrain,
"Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!"
And wise men hailed the promised sign,
And brought their birth-gifts from the East,
Dear to that Mother as the wine
That hallowed Cana's bridal feast;
But what to these are myrrh or gold,
And what Arabia's costliest gem,
Whose eyes the Child divine behold,
The blessed Babe of Bethlehem.
"Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!"
They sing, the bright ones overhead;
And scarce the jubilant anthems cease
Ere Judah wails her first-born dead;
And Rama's wild, despairing cry
Fills with great dread the shuddering coast,
And Rachel hath but one reply,
"Bring back, bring back my loved and lost."
So, down two thousand years of doom
That cry is borne on wailing winds,
But never star breaks through the gloom,
No cradled peace the watcher finds;
And still the Herodian steel is driven,
And breaking hearts make ceaseless moan,
And still the mute appeal to heaven
Man answers back with groan for groan.
How shall we keep our Christmas tide?
With that dread past, its wounds agape,
Forever walking by our side,
A fearful shade, an awful shape;
Can any promise of the spring
Make green the faded autumn leaf?
Or who shall say that time will bring
Fair fruit to him who sows but grief?
Wild bells! that shake the midnight air
With those dear tones that custom loves,
You wake no sounds of laughter here,
Nor mirth in all our silent groves;
On one broad waste, by hill or flood,
Of ravaged lands your music falls,
And where the happy homestead stood
The stars look down on roofless halls.
At every board a vacant chair
Fills with quick tears some tender eye,
And at our maddest sports appear
Those well-loved forms that will not die.
We lift the glass, our hand is stayed--
We jest, a spectre rises up--
And weeping, though no word is said,
We kiss and pass the silent cup,
And pledge the gallant friend who keeps
His Christmas-eve on Malvern's height,
And him, our fair-haired boy, who sleeps
Beneath Virginian snows to-night;
While, by the fire, she, musing, broods
On all that was and might have been,
If Shiloh's dank and oozing woods
Had never drunk that crimson stain.
O happy Yules of buried years!
Could ye but come in wonted guise,
Sweet as love's earliest kiss appears,
When looking back through wistful eyes,
Would seem those chimes whose voices tell
His birth-night with melodious burst,
Who, sitting by Samaria's well,
Quenched the lorn widow's life-long thirst.
Ah! yet I trust that all who weep,
Somewhere, at last, will surely find
His rest, if through dark ways they keep
The child-like faith, the prayerful mind;
And some far Christmas morn shall bring
From human ills a sweet release
To loving hearts, while angels sing
"Peace and good-will, good-will and peace!"