XIX.
THE SOUTH IN THE UNION.
An ancient Chronicle has told
That, in the famous days of old,
In Antioch under ground
The self-same lance was found—
Unbitten by corrosive rust—
The lance the Roman soldier thrust
In CHRIST'S bare side upon the Tree;
And that it brought
A mighty spell
To those who fought
The Infidel
And mighty victory.
And so this day
To you I say—
Speaking for millions of true Southern men—
In words that have no undertow—
I say, and say agen:
Come weal, or woe,
Should this Republic ever fight,
By land, or sea,
For present law, or ancient right
The South will be
As was that lance,
Albeit not found
Hid under ground
But in the forefront of the first advance!
'Twill fly a pennon fair
As ever kissed the air,
On it, for every glance,
Shall blaze majestic France
Blent with our Hero's name
In everlasting flame,
And written, fair in gold,
This legend on its fold:
Give us back the ties of Yorktown!
Perish all the modern hates!
Let us stand together, brothers,
In defiance of the Fates;
FOR THE SAFETY OF THE UNION
IS THE SAFETY OF THE STATES!
TO ALEXANDER GALT, THE SCULPTOR.
Alas! he's cold!
Cold as the marble which his fingers wrought—
Cold, but not dead; for each embodied thought
Of his, which he from the Ideal brought
To live in stone,
Assures him immortality of fame.
Galt is not dead!
Only too soon
We saw him climb
Up to his pedestal, where equal Time
And coming generations, in the noon
Of his full reputation, yet shall stand
To pay just homage to his noble name.
Our Poet of the Quarries only sleeps,
He cleft his pathway up the future's steeps,
And now rests from his labors.
Hence 'tis I say;
For him there is no death,
Only the stopping of the pulse and breath—
But simple breath is not the all in all;
Man hath it but in common with the brutes—
Life is in action and in brave pursuits!
By what we dream, and having dreamt, dare do,
We hold our places in the world's large view,
And still have part in the affairs of men
When the long sleep is on us.