Then the revellers would cease ere the red wine they'd quaff,
The traveller would pause on his way;
And maidens would hush their low silvery laugh,
To list to the negro's rude lay.
"Going home! going home!" methinks I now hear
At the close of each solemn refrain;
'Twill be many a day, aye, and many a year,
Ere ye'll sing that dear word "Home" again.
Your noble sons slain, on the battle-field lie,
Your daughters' mid strangers now roam;
Your aged and helpless in poverty sigh
O'er the days when they once had a home.
"Going home! going home!" for the exile alone
Can those words sweep the chords of the soul,
And raise from the grave the loved ones who are gone,
As the tide-waves of time backward roll.
"Going home! going home!" Ah! how many who pine,
Dear Beaufort, to press thy green soul,
Ere then will have passed to shores brighter than thine--
Will have gone home at last to their God!
Somebody's Darling.
By Marie La Coste, of Georgia.
Into a ward of the whitewashed halls,
Where the dead and the dying lay--
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody's darling was borne one day--
Somebody's darling, so young and so brave!
Wearing yet on his sweet, pale face--
Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave--
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace!
Matted and damp are the curls of gold
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow,
Pale are the lips of delicate mould--
Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow
Brush his wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hands on his bosom now--
Somebody's darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer soft and low--
One bright curl from its fair mates take--
They were somebody's pride you know.
Somebody's hand hath rested there;
Was it a mother's, soft and white?
Or have the lips of a sister fair--
Been baptized in their waves of light?