Do we weep for the heroes who died for us,
Who, living, were true and tried for us,
And, dying, sleep side by side for us;
The martyr band
That hallowed our land
With the blood they shed in a tide for us?
Ah! fearless on many a day for us,
They stood in the front of the fray for us,
And held the foeman at bay for us;
And tears should fall
Fore’er o’er all
Who fell while wearing the gray for us.
How many a glorious name for us,
How many a story of fame for us
They left: Would it not be a blame for us
If their memories part
From our land and heart,
And a wrong to them, and a shame for us?
No, no, no! they were brave for us,
And bright were the lives they gave for us;
The land they struggled to save for us
Will not forget
Its warriors yet
Who sleep in so many a grave for us.
On many and many a plain for us
Their blood poured down all in vain for us,
Red, rich, and pure, like a rain for us;
They bleed—we weep,
We live—they sleep,
“All lost,” the only refrain for us.
But their memories e’er shall remain for us,
And their names, bright names, without stain for us;
The glory they won shall not wane for us,
In legend and lay
Our heroes in gray
Shall forever live over again for us.

THE SWEET SOUTH.

BY WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.

O the sweet South! the sunny, sunny South!
Land of true feeling, land forever mine!
I drink the kisses of her rosy mouth,
And my heart swells as with a draught of wine;
She brings me blessings of maternal love;
I have her smile which hallows all my toil;
Her voice persuades, her generous smiles approve,
She sings me from the sky and from the soil!
O, by her lonely pines that wave and sigh!
O, by her myriad flowers, that bloom and fade,
By all the thousand beauties of her sky,
And the sweet solace of her forest shade,
She’s mine—she’s ever mine—
Nor will I aught resign
Of what she gives me, mortal or divine;
Will sooner part
With life, hope, heart—
Will die—before I fly!
O, love is hers—such love as ever glows
In souls where leap affection’s living tide;
She is all fondness to her friends; to foes
She glows a thing of passion, strength, and pride;
She feels no tremors when the danger’s nigh,
But the fight over and the victory won,
How, with strange fondness, turns her loving eye
In tearful welcome on each gallant son!
O! by her virtues of the cherished past—
By all her hopes of what the future brings—
I glory that my lot with her is cast,
And my soul flushes and exulting sings;
She’s mine—she’s ever mine—
For her will I resign
All precious things—all placed upon her shrine;
Will freely part
With life, hope, heart—
Will die—do aught but fly!

THE SOUTHERN CROSS.[19]

BY MRS. ELLEN KEY BLUNT.