STONEWALL JACKSON.
OVER the low Virginian farms the smoke of the ev'ning rose and flowed,
The scent of cedar hung in the air—the scent of burning sap,
And up the valley the murmur died, the sound of feet on a dusty road—
A clatter and ring of horse and guns that led to Ashby's Gap.
And the Blue Ridge called to the Shenandoah stream,
As the Massanutton hills grew black—
"Look your last, Shenandoah—where the bayonets gleam,