What the Heart of a Young Girl Said to the Dead Soldier.
By a Lady of Augusta, Geo.
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.
Perchance, 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 the relics of a vanquished land
And light the torch of sanctifying fires.
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
Deepening 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.
Ye Cavaliers of Dixie
By Benj. F. Pouter, 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 back 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 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.
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! Springs 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 jasmin 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!
"What the Village Bell Said."
By John C. M'Lemore, of South Carolina.[1]
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.
[1] Mortally wounded at the battle of Seven Pines.
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 arméd 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 roll 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.
Southern War Hymn
By John A. Wagener, of South Carolina.
Arise! 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.
Charleston Courier.
The Battle Rainbow.
By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.
The poem which follows was written just after the Seven Days of Battle, near Richmond, in 1862. It was suggested by the appearance of a rainbow, the evening before the grand trial of strength between the contending armies. This rainbow overspread the eastern sky, and exactly defined the position of the Confederate army, as seen from the Capitol at Richmond.
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.
Stonewall Jackson.
Mortally wounded--"The Brigade must not know, sir."
"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.
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 decus, 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
Pæan 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!