Aye, give them welcome home, fair South,
For you they've made a deathless name;
Bright through all after-time will glow
The glorious record of their fame.
They made a nation. What, though soon
Its radiant sun has seemed to set;
The past has shown what they can do,
The future holds bright promise yet.
The Heights of Mission Ridge.
By J. Augustine Signaigo.
When the foes, in conflict heated,
Battled over road and bridge,
While Bragg sullenly retreated
From the heights of Mission Ridge--
There, amid the pines and wildwood,
Two opposing colonels fell,
Who had schoolmates been in childhood,
And had loved each other well.
There, amid the roar and rattle,
Facing Havoc's fiery breath,
Met the wounded two in battle,
In the agonies of death.
But they saw each other reeling
On the dead and dying men,
And the old time, full of feeling,
Came upon them once again.
When that night the moon came creeping,
With its gold streaks, o'er the slain,
She beheld two soldiers, sleeping,
Free from every earthly pain.
Close beside the mountain heather,
Where the rocks obscure the sand,
They had died, it seems, together,
As they clasped each other's hand.
"Our Left at Manassas."
From dawn to dark they stood,
That long midsummer's day!
While fierce and fast
The battle-blast
Swept rank on rank away!
From dawn to dark, they fought
With legions swept and cleft,
While black and wide,
The battle-tide
Poured ever on our "Left!"
They closed each ghastly gap!
They dressed each shattered rank
They knew, how well!
That Freedom fell
With that exhausted flank!