Air--There is rest for the weary.
By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama.
Lo! the Southland Queen, emerging
From her sad and wintry gloom,
Robes her torn and bleeding bosom
In her richest orient bloom:
CHORUS.--(Repeat first line three times.)
For her weary sons are resting
By the Edenshore;
They have won the crown immortal,
And the cross of death is o'er!
Where the Oriflamme is burning
On the starlit Edenshore!
Brightly still, in gorgeous glory,
God's great jewel lights our sky;
Look! upon the heart's white dial
There's a SHADOW flitting by!
CHORUS.--But the weary feet are resting, etc.
Homes are dark and hearts are weary,
Souls are numb with hopeless pain;
For the footfall on the threshold
Never more to sound again!
CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever,
Aye, for evermore!
We must win the crown immortal,
Follow where they led before,
Where the Oriflamme is burning
On the starlit Edenshore.
Proudly, as our Southern forests
Meet the winter's shafts so keen:
Time-defying memories cluster
Round our hearts in living green.
CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.
May our faltering voices mingle
In the angel-chanted psalm;
May our earthly chaplets linger
By the bright celestial palm.
CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.
Crest to crest they bore our banner,
Side by side they fell asleep;
Hand in hand we scatter flowers,
Heart to heart we kneel and weep!
CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.
When the May eternal dawneth
At the living God's behest,
We will quaff divine Nepenthe,
We will share the Soldier's rest.
CHORUS.--Where the weary feet are resting, etc.
Where the shadows are uplifted
'Neath the never-waning sun,
Shout we, Gloria in Excelsis!
We have lost, but ye have won!
CHORUS.--Our hearts are yours forever,
Aye, for evermore!
Ye have won the crown immortal,
And the cross of death is o'er,
Where the Oriflamme is burning
On the starlit Edenshore!
The Southern Homes in Ruin.
By R. B. Vance, of North Carolina.
"We know a great deal about war now; but, dear readers, the Southern women know more. Blood has not dripped on our doorsills yet; shells have not burst above our homesteads--let us pray they never may."--Frank Leslie's Illustrated.
Many a gray-haired sire has died,
As falls the oak, to rise no more,
Because his son, his prop, his pride,
Breathed out his last all red with gore.
No more on earth, at morn, at eve,
Shall age and youth, entwined as one--
Nor father, son, for either grieve--
Life's work, alas, for both is done!
Many a mother's heart has bled
While gazing on her darling child,
As in its tiny eyes she read
The father's image, kind and mild;
For ne'er again his voice will cheer
The widowed heart, which mourns him dead;
Nor kisses dry the scalding tear,
Fast falling on the orphan's head!
Many a little form will stray
Adown the glen and o'er the hill,
And watch, with wistful looks, the way
For him whose step is missing still;
And when the twilight steals apace
O'er mead, and brook, and lonely home,
And shadows cloud the dear, sweet face--
The cry will be, "Oh, papa, come!"
And many a home's in ashes now,
Where joy was once a constant guest,
And mournful groups there are, I trow,
With neither house nor place of rest;
And blood is on the broken sill,
Where happy feet went to and fro,
And everywhere, by field and hill,
Are sickening sights and sounds of woe!
There is a God who rules on high,
The widow's and the orphan's friend,
Who sees each tear and hears each sigh,
That these lone hearts to Him may send!
And when in wrath He tears away
The reasons vain which men indite,
The record book will plainest say
Who's in the wrong, and who is right.
"Rappahannock Army Song."
By John C. M'Lemore.
The toil of the march is over--
The pack will be borne no more--
For we've come for the help of Richmond,
From the Rappahannock's shore.
The foe is closing round us--
We can hear his ravening cry;
So, ho! for fair old Richmond!
Like soldiers we'll do or die.
We have left the land that bore us,
Full many a league away,
And our mothers and sisters miss us,
As with tearful eyes they pray;
But this will repress their weeping,
And still the rising sigh--
For all, for fair old Richmond,
Have come to do or die.
We have come to join our brothers
From the proud Dominion's vales,
And to meet the dark-cheeked soldier,
Tanned by the Tropic gales;
To greet them all full gladly,
With hand and beaming eye,
And to swear, for fair old Richmond,
We all will do or die.
The fair Carolina sisters
Stand ready, lance in hand,
To fight as they did in an older war,
For the sake of their fatherland.
The glories of Sumter and Bethel
Have raised their fame full high,
But they'll fade, if for fair old Richmond
They swear not to do or die.
Zollicoffer looks down on his people,
And trusts to their hearts and arms,
To avenge the blood he has shed,
In the midst of the battle's alarms.
Alabamians, remember the past,
Be the "South at Manassas," their cry;
As onward for fair old Richmond,
They marched to do or die.
Brave Bartow, from home on high,
Calls the Empire State to the front,
To bear once more as she has borne
With glory the battle's brunt.
Mississippians who know no surrender,
Bear the flag of the Chief on high;
For he, too, for fair old Richmond,
Has sworn to do or die.
Fair land of my birth--sweet Florida--
Your arm is weak, but your soul
Must tell of a purer, holier strength,
When the drums for the battle roll.
Look within, for your hope in the combat,
Nor think of your few with a sigh--
If you win not for fair old Richmond,
At least you can bravely die.
Onward all! Oh! band of brothers!
The beat of the long roll's heard!
And the hearts of the columns advancing,
By the sound of its music is stirred.
Onward all! and never return,
Till our foes from the Borders fly--
To be crowned by the fair of old Richmond,
As those who could do or die.
Richmond Enquirer.
The Soldier in the Rain.
By Julia L. Keyes.
Ah me! the rain has a sadder sound
Than it ever had before;
And the wind more plaintively whistles through
The crevices of the door.
We know we are safe beneath our roof
From every drop that falls;
And we feel secure and blest, within
The shelter of our walls.
Then why do we dread to hear the noise
Of the rapid, rushing rain--
And the plash of the wintry drops, that beat
Through the blinds, on the window-pane?
We think of the tents on the lowly ground,
Where our patriot soldiers lie;
And the sentry's bleak and lonely march,
'Neath the dark and starless sky.
And we pray, with a tearful heart, for those
Who brave for us yet more--
And we wish this war, with its thousand ills
And griefs, was only o'er.
We pray when the skies are bright and clear,
When the winds are soft and warm--
But oh! we pray with an aching heart
'Mid the winter's rain and storm.
We fain would lift these mantling clouds
That shadow our sunny clime;
We can but wait--for we know there'll be
A day, in the coming time,
When peace, like a rosy dawn, will flood
Our land with softest light:
Then--we will scarcely hearken the rain
In the dreary winter's night.