Of Our Right-Revered Father in God, Leonidas Polk, Lieutenant-General Confederate States Army.
Peace, troubled soul! The strife is done,
This life's fierce conflicts and its woes are ended:
There is no more--eternity begun,
Faith merged in sight--hope with fruition blended.
Peace, troubled soul!
The Warrior rests upon his bier,
Within his coffin calmly sleeping.
His requiem the cannon peals,
And heroes of a hundred fields
Their last sad watch are round him keeping.
Joy, sainted soul! Within the vale
Of Heaven's great temple, is thy blissful dwelling;
Bathed in a light, to which the sun is pale,
Archangels' hymns in endless transports swelling.
Joy, sainted soul!
Back to her altar which he served,
The Holy Church her child is bringing.
The organ's wail then dies away,
And kneeling priests around him pray,
As De Profundis they are singing.
Bring all the trophies, that are owed
To him at once so great, so good.
His Bible and his well-used sword--
His snowy lawn not "stained with blood!"
No! pure as when before his God,
He laid its spotless folds aside,
War's path of awful duty trod,
And on his country's altar died!
Oh! Warrior-bishop, Church and State
Sustain in thee an equal loss;
But who would call thee from thy weight
Of glory, back to bear life's cross!
The Faith was kept--thy course was run,
Thy good fight finished; hence the word,
"Well done, oh! faithful child, well done,
Taste thou the mercies of thy Lord!"
No dull decay nor lingering pain,
By slow degrees, consumed thy health,
A glowing messenger of flame
Translated thee by fiery death!
And we who in one common grief
Are bending now beneath the rod,
In this sweet thought may find relief,
"Our holy father walked with God,
And is not--God has taken him!"
Viola.
"Stonewall" Jackson
By H. L. Flash.
Not '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! 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!
"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,
Rayless-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 I 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!
Beaufort.
By W. J. Grayson, of South Carolina.
Old home! what blessings late were yours;
The gifts of peace, the songs of joy!
Now, hostile squadrons seek your 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 land 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 bead
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.
Oh, 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!
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 Malverri 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 so 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, Torn, 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 its plain to me
That is Tom with the silver hair.
He gives away the lovely bride,
And the guests linger, loth to leave
The house of him in whom they pride--
"Brave old Tom with the empty sleeve."
The Cotton-Burners' Hymn.
"On yesterday, all the cotton in Memphis, and throughout the country, was burned. Probably not less than 300,000 bales have been burned in the last three days, in West Tennessee and North Mississippi."--Memphis Appeal.