Chapter 16

Crest to crest they bore our banner, Side by side they fell asleep; Hand in hand we scatter flowers, Heart to heart we kneel and weep!

CHORUS.--They have gone from us forever, etc.

When the May eternal dawneth At the living God's behest, We will quaff divine Nepenthe, We will share the Soldier's rest.

CHORUS.--Where the weary feet are resting, etc.

Where the shadows are uplifted 'Neath the never-waning sun, Shout we, Gloria in Excelsis! We have lost, but ye have won!

CHORUS.--Our hearts are yours forever, Aye, for evermore! Ye have won the crown immortal, And the cross of death is o'er, Where the Oriflamme is burning On the starlit Edenshore!

The Southern Homes in Ruin.

By R. B. Vance, of North Carolina.

"We know a great deal about war now; but, dear readers, the Southern women know more. Blood has not dripped on our doorsills yet; shells have not burst above our _homesteads_--let us pray they never may." --_Frank Leslie's Illustrated_.

Many a gray-haired sire has died, As falls the oak, to rise no more, Because his son, his prop, his pride, Breathed out his last all red with gore. No more on earth, at morn, at eve, Shall age and youth, entwined as one-- Nor father, son, for either grieve-- Life's work, alas, for both is done!

Many a mother's heart has bled While gazing on her darling child, As in its tiny eyes she read The father's image, kind and mild; For ne'er again his voice will cheer The widowed heart, which mourns him dead; Nor kisses dry the scalding tear, Fast falling on the orphan's head!

Many a little form will stray Adown the glen and o'er the hill, And watch, with wistful looks, the way For him whose step is missing still; And when the twilight steals apace O'er mead, and brook, and lonely home, And shadows cloud the dear, sweet face-- The cry will be, "Oh, papa, come!"

And many a home's in ashes now, Where joy was once a constant guest, And mournful groups there are, I trow, With neither house nor place of rest; And blood is on the broken _sill_, Where happy feet went to and fro, And everywhere, by field and hill, Are sickening sights and sounds of woe!

There is a God who rules on high, The widow's and the orphan's friend, Who sees each tear and hears each sigh, That these lone hearts to Him may send! And when in wrath He tears away The reasons vain which men indite, The record book will plainest say Who's in the wrong, and who is right.

"Rappahannock Army Song."

By John C. M'Lemore.

The toil of the march is over-- The pack will be borne no more-- For we've come for the help of Richmond, From the Rappahannock's shore. The foe is closing round us-- We can hear his ravening cry; So, ho! for fair old Richmond! Like soldiers we'll do or die. We have left the land that bore us, Full many a league away, And our mothers and sisters miss us, As with tearful eyes they pray; But _this_ will repress their weeping, And still the rising sigh-- For all, for fair old Richmond, Have come to do or die.

We have come to join our brothers From the proud Dominion's vales, And to meet the dark-cheeked soldier, Tanned by the Tropic gales; To greet them all full gladly, With hand and beaming eye, And to swear, for fair old Richmond, We all will do or die.

The fair Carolina sisters Stand ready, lance in hand, To fight as they did in an older war, For the sake of their fatherland. The glories of Sumter and Bethel Have raised their fame full high, But they'll fade, if for fair old Richmond They swear not to do or die.

Zollicoffer looks down on his people, And trusts to their hearts and arms, To avenge the blood he has shed, In the midst of the battle's alarms. Alabamians, remember the past, Be the "South at Manassas," their cry; As onward for fair old Richmond, They marched to do or die.

Brave Bartow, from home on high, Calls the Empire State to the front, To bear once more as she has borne With glory the battle's brunt. Mississippians who know no surrender, Bear the flag of the Chief on high; For he, too, for fair old Richmond, Has sworn to do or die.

Fair land of my birth--sweet Florida-- Your arm is weak, but your soul Must tell of a purer, holier strength, When the drums for the battle roll. Look within, for your hope in the combat, Nor think of your few with a sigh-- If you win not for fair old Richmond, At least you can bravely die.

Onward all! Oh! band of brothers! The beat of the long roll's heard! And the hearts of the columns advancing, By the sound of its music is stirred. Onward all! and never return, Till our foes from the Borders fly-- To be crowned by the fair of old Richmond, As those who could do or die.

Richmond Enquirer.

The Soldier in the Rain.

By Julia L. Keyes.

Ah me! the rain has a sadder sound Than it ever had before; And the wind more plaintively whistles through The crevices of the door.

We know we are safe beneath our roof From every drop that falls; And we feel secure and blest, within The shelter of our walls.

Then why do we dread to hear the noise Of the rapid, rushing rain-- And the plash of the wintry drops, that beat Through the blinds, on the window-pane?

We think of the tents on the lowly ground, Where our patriot soldiers lie; And the sentry's bleak and lonely march, 'Neath the dark and starless sky.

And we pray, with a tearful heart, for those Who brave for us yet more-- And we wish this war, with its thousand ills And griefs, was only o'er.

We pray when the skies are bright and clear, When the winds are soft and warm-- But oh! we pray with an aching heart 'Mid the winter's rain and storm.

We fain would lift these mantling clouds That shadow our sunny clime; We can but wait--for we know there'll be A day, in the coming time,

When peace, like a rosy dawn, will flood Our land with softest light: Then--we will scarcely hearken the rain In the dreary winter's night.

My Country.

By W. D. Porter, S. C.

I.

Go, read the stories of the great and free, The nations on the long, bright roll of fame, Whose noble rage has baffled the decree Of tyrants to despoil their life and name;

II.

Whose swords have flashed like lightning in the eyes Of robber despots, glorying in their might, And taught the world, by deeds of high emprise, The power of truth and sacredness of right:

III.

Whose people, strong to suffer and endure, In faith have wrestled till the blessing came, And won through woes a victory doubly sure, As martyr wins his crown through blood and flame.

IV.

The purest virtue has been sorest tried, Nor is there glory without patient toil; And he who woos fair Freedom for his bride, Through suffering must be purged of stain and soil.

V.

My country! in this hour of trial sore, When in the balance trembling hangs thy fate, Brace thy great heart with courage to the core, Nor let one jot of faith or hope abate!

IV.

The world's bright eye is fixed upon thee still; _Life, honor, fame_--these all are in the scale: _Endure! endure! endure!_ with iron will, And by the truth of heaven, thou shalt not fail!

Patriot and Mountaineer.

"After the Battle."

By Miss Agnes Leonard.

I.

All day long the sun had wandered, Through the slowly creeping hours, And at last the stars were shining Like some golden-petalled flowers Scattered o'er the azure bosom Of the glory-haunted night, Flooding all the sky with grandeur, Filling all the earth with light.

II.

And the fair moon, with the sweet stars, Gleamed amid the radiant spheres Like "a pearl of great price" shining Just as it had shone for years, On the young land that had risen, In her beauty and her might, Like some gorgeous superstructure Woven in the dreams of night:

III.

With her "cities hung like jewels" On her green and peaceful breast, With her harvest fields of plenty, And her quiet homes of rest. But a change had fallen sadly O'er the young and beauteous land, Brothers on the field fought madly That once wandered hand in hand.

IV.

And "the hearts of distant mountains Shuddered," with a fearful wonder, As the echoes burst upon them Of the cannon's awful thunder. Through the long hours waged the battle Till the setting of the sun Dropped a seal upon the record, That the day's mad work was done.

V.

Thickly on the trampled grasses Lay the battle's awful traces, 'Mid the blood-stained clover-blossoms Lay the stark and ghastly faces, With no mourners bending downward O'er a costly funeral pall; And the dying daylight softly, With the starlight watched o'er all.

VI.

And, where eager, joyous footsteps Once perchance were wont to pass, Ran a little streamlet making One "blue fold in the dark grass;" And where, from its hidden fountain, Clear and bright the brooklet burst Two had crawled, and each was bending O'er to slake his burning thirst.

VII.

Then beneath the solemn starlight Of the radiant jewelled skies, Both had turned, and were intently Gazing in each other's eyes. Both were solemnly forgiving-- Hushed the pulse of passion's breath-- Calmed the maddening thirst for battle, By the chilling hand of death.

VIII.

Then spoke one, in bitter anguish: "God have pity on my wife, And my children, in New Hampshire; Orphans by this cruel strife." And the other, leaning closer, Underneath the solemn sky, Bowed his head to hide the moisture Gathering in his downcast eye:

IX.

"_I've_ a wife and little daughter, 'Mid the fragrant Georgia bloom,"-- Then his cry rang sharper, wilder, "Oh, God! pity all their gloom." And the wounded, in their death-hour, Talking of the loved ones' woes, Nearer drew unto each other, Till they were no longer foes.

X.

And the Georgian listened sadly As the other tried to speak, While the tears were dropping softly O'er the pallor of his cheek: "How she used to stand and listen, Looking o'er the fields for me, Waiting, till she saw me coming, 'Neath the shadowy old plum-tree. Never more I'll hear her laughter, As she sees me at the gate, And beneath the plum-tree's shadows, All in vain for me she'll wait."

XI.

Then the Georgian, speaking softly, Said: "A brown-eyed little one Used to wait among the roses, For _me_, when the day was done; And amid the early fragrance Of those blossoms, fresh and sweet, Up and down the old verandah I would chase my darling's feet. But on earth no more the beauty Of her face my eye shall greet, Nevermore I'll hear the music Of those merry pattering feet-- Ah, the solemn starlight, falling On the far-off Georgia bloom, Tells no tale unto my darling Of her absent father's doom."

XII.

Through the tears that rose between them Both were trying grief to smother, As they clasped each other's fingers Whispering: _"Let's forgive each other."_

XIII.

When the morning sun was walking "Up the gray stairs of the dawn," And the crimson east was flushing All the forehead of the morn, Pitying skies were looking sadly On the "once proud, happy land," On the Southron and the Northman, Holding fast each other's hand. Fatherless the golden tresses, Watching 'neath the old plum-tree; Fatherless the little Georgian Sporting in unconscious glee.

Chicago Journal of Commerce, June, 1868.

Our Confederate Dead.

What the Heart of a Young Girl Said to the Dead Soldier.

By a Lady of Augusta, Geo.

Unknown to me, brave boy, but still I wreathe For you the tenderest of wildwood flowers; And o'er your tomb a virgin's prayer I breathe, To greet the pure moon and the April showers.

I only know, I only care to know, You died for me--for me and country bled; A thousand Springs and wild December snow Will weep for one of all the SOUTHERN DEAD.

Perchance, some mother gazes up the skies, Wailing, like Rachel, for her martyred brave-- Oh, for her darling sake, my dewy eyes Moisten the turf above your lowly grave.

The cause is sacred, when our maidens stand Linked with sad matrons and heroic sires, Above the relics of a vanquished land And light the torch of sanctifying fires.

Your bed of honor has a rosy cope To shimmer back the tributary stars; And every petal glistens with a hope Where Love hath blossomed in the disk of Mars.

Sleep! On your couch of glory slumber comes Bosomed amid the archangelic choir; Not with the grumble of impetuous drums Deepening the chorus of embattled ire.

Above you shall the oak and cedar fling Their giant plumage and protecting shade; For you the song-bird pause upon his wing And warble requiems ever undismayed.

Farewell! And if your spirit wander near To kiss this plant of unaspiring art-- Translate it, even in the heavenly sphere, As the libretto of a maiden's heart.

Ye Cavaliers of Dixie

By Benj. F. Pouter, of Alabama.

Ye Cavaliers of Dixie That guard our Southern shores, Whose standards brave the battle-storm That round the border roars; Your glorious sabres draw again, And charge the invading foe; Reap the columns deep Where the battle tempests blow, Where the iron hail in floods descends, And the bloody torrents flow.

Ye Cavaliers of Dixie! Though dark the tempest lower, No arms will wear a tyrant's chains! No dastard heart will cower! Bright o'er the cloud the sign will rise, To lead to victory; While your swords reap his hordes, Where the battle-tempests blow, And the iron hail in floods descends, And the bloody torrents flow.

Ye Cavaliers of Dixie! Though Vicksburg's towers fall, Here still are sacred rights to shield! Your wives, your homes, your all! With gleaming arms advance again, Drive back the raging foe, Nor yield your native field, While the battle-tempests blow, And the iron hail in floods descends, And the bloody torrents flow.

Our country needs no ramparts, No batteries to shield! Your bosoms are her bulwarks strong, Breastworks that cannot yield! The thunders of your battle-blades Shall sweep the hated foe, While their gore stains the shore, Where the battle-tempests blow, And the iron hail in floods descends, And the bloody torrents flow.

The spirits of your fathers Shall rise from every grave! Our country is their field of fame, They nobly died to save! Where Johnson, Jackson, Tilghman fell, Your patriot hearts shall glow; While you reap columns deep, Through the armies of the foe, Where the battle-storm is raging loud, And the bloody torrents flow.

The battle-flag of Dixie On crimson field shall flame, With azure cross, and silver stars, To light her sons to fame! When peace with olive-branch returns, That flag's white folds shall glow, Still bright on every height, Where the storm has ceased to blow, Where battle-tempests rage no more, Nor bloody torrents flow.

The battle-flag of Dixie Shall long triumphant wave, Where'er the storms of battle roar, And victory crowns the brave! The Cavaliers of Dixie! In woman's songs shall glow The fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow, When the battle-tempests rage no more, Nor the bloody torrents flow.

Song of Spring, (1864.)

By John A. Wagener, of South Carolina.

Spring has come! Spring has come! The brightening earth, the sparkling dew, The bursting buds, the sky of blue, The mocker's carol, in tree and hedge, Proclaim anew Jehovah's pledge-- "So long as man shall earth retain, The seasons gone shall come again."

Spring has come! Springs has come! We have her here, in the balmy air, In the blossoms that bourgeon without a care; The violet bounds from her lowly bed, And the jasmin flaunts with a lofty head; All nature, in her baptismal dress, Is abroad--to win, to soothe, and bless.

Spring has come! Spring has come! Yes, and eternal as the Lord, Who spells her being at a word; All blest but man, whose passions proud Wrap Nature in her bloody shroud-- His heart is winter to the core, His spring, alas! shall come no more!

"What the Village Bell Said."

By John C. M'Lemore, of South Carolina.[1]

Full many a year in the village church, Above the world have I made my home; And happier there, than if I had hung High up in the air in a golden dome; For I have tolled When the slow hearse rolled Its burden sad to my door; And each echo that woke, With the solemn stroke, Was a sigh from the heart of the poor.

I know the great bell of the city spire Is a far prouder one than such as I; And its deafening stroke, compared with mine, Is thunder compared with a sigh: But the shattering note Of his brazen throat, As it swells on the Sabbath air, Far oftener rings For other things Than a call to the house of prayer.

Brave boy, I tolled when your father died, And you wept while my tones pealed loud; And more gently I rung when the lily-white dame, Your mother dear, lay in her shroud: And I sang in sweet tone The angels might own, When your sister you gave to your friend; Oh! I rang with delight, On that sweet summer night, When they vowed they would love to the end!

But a base foe comes from the regions of crime, With a heart all hot with the flames of hell; And the tones of the bell you have loved so long No more on the air shall swell: For the people's chief, With his proud belief That his country's cause is God's own, Would change the song, The hills have rung, To the thunder's harsher tone.

Then take me down from the village church, Where in peace so long I have hung; But I charge you, by all the loved and lost, _Remember the songs I have sung._ Remember the mound Of holy ground, Where your father and mother lie; And swear by the love For the dead above To beat your foul foe or die.

Then take me; but when (I charge you this) You have come to the bloody field, That the bell of God, to a cannon grown, You will ne'er to the foeman yield. By the love of the past, Be that hour your last, When the foe has reached this trust; And make him a bed Of patriot dead, And let him sleep in this holy dust.

[1] Mortally wounded at the battle of Seven Pines.

The Tree, the Serpent, and the Star.

By A. P. Gray, of South Carolina.

From the silver sands of a gleaming shore, Where the wild sea-waves were breaking, A lofty shoot from a twining root Sprang forth as the dawn was waking; And the crest, though fed by the sultry beam, (And the shaft by the salt wave only,) Spread green to the breeze of the curling seas, And rose like a column lonely. Then hail to the tree, the Palmetto tree, Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free.

As the sea-winds rustled the bladed crest, And the sun to the noon rose higher, A serpent came, with an eye of flame, And coiled by the leafy pyre; His ward he would keep by the lonely tree, To guard it with constant devotion; Oh, sharp was the fang, and the arméd clang, That pierced through the roar of the ocean, And guarded the tree, the Palmetto tree, Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free.

And the day wore down to the twilight close, The breeze died away from the billow; Yet the wakeful clang of the rattles rang Anon from the serpent's pillow; When I saw through the night a gleaming star O'er the branching summit growing, Till the foliage green and the serpent's sheen In the golden light were glowing, That hung o'er the tree, the Palmetto tree, Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free.

By the standard cleave every loyal son, When the drums' long roll shall rattle; Let the folds stream high to the victor's eye; Or sink in the shock of the battle. Should triumph rest on the red field won, With a victor's song let us hail it; If the battle fail and the star grow pale, Yet never in shame will we veil it, But cherish the tree, the Palmetto tree, Ensign of the noble, the brave, and the free.

Southern War Hymn

By John A. Wagener, of South Carolina.

Arise! arise! with arm of might, Sons of our sunny home! Gird on the sword for the sacred fight, For the battle-hour hath come! Arise! for the felon foe draws nigh In battle's dread array; To the front, ye brave! let the coward fly, 'Tis the hero that bides the fray!

Strike hot and hard, my noble band, With the arm of fight and fire; Strike fast for God and Fatherland, For mother, and wife, and sire. Though thunders roar and lightnings flash, Oh! Southrons, never fear, Ye shall turn the bolt with the sabre's clash, And the shaft with the steely spear.

Bright blooms shall wave o'er the hero's grave, While the craven finds no rest; Thrice cursed the traitor, the slave, the knave, While thrice is the hero blessed To the front in the fight, ye Southrons, stand, Brave spirits, with eagle eye, And standing for God and for Fatherland, Ye will gallantly do or die.

Charleston Courier.

The Battle Rainbow.

By John R. Thompson, of Virginia.

The poem which follows was written just after the Seven Days of Battle, near Richmond, in 1862. It was suggested by the appearance of a rainbow, the evening before the grand trial of strength between the contending armies. This rainbow overspread the eastern sky, and exactly defined the position of the Confederate army, as seen from the Capitol at Richmond.

The warm, weary day, was departing--the smile Of the sunset gave token the tempest had ceased; And the lightning yet fitfully gleamed for a while On the cloud that sank sullen and dark in the east.

There our army--awaiting the terrible fight Of the morrow--lay hopeful, and watching, and still; Where their tents all the region had sprinkled with white, From river to river, o'er meadow and hill.

While above them the fierce cannonade of the sky Blazed and burst from the vapors that muffled the sun, Their "counterfeit clamors" gave forth no reply; And slept till the battle, the charge in each gun.

When lo! on the cloud, a miraculous thing! Broke in beauty the rainbow our host to enfold! The centre o'erspread by its arch, and each wing Suffused with its azure and crimson and gold.

Blest omen of victory, symbol divine Of peace after tumult, repose after pain; How sweet and how glowing with promise the sign, To eyes that should never behold it again!

For the fierce flame of war on the morrow flashed out, And its thunder-peals filled all the tremulous air: Over slippery intrenchment and reddened redoubt, Rang the wild cheer of triumph, the cry of despair.

Then a long week of glory and agony came-- Of mute supplication, and yearning, and dread; When day unto day gave the record of fame, And night unto night gave the list of its dead.

We had triumphed--the foe had fled back to his ships-- His standard in rags and his legions a wreck-- But alas! the stark faces and colorless lips Of our loved ones, gave triumph's rejoicing a check.

Not yet, oh not yet, as a sign of release, Had the Lord set in mercy his bow in the cloud; Not yet had the Comforter whispered of peace To the hearts that around us lay bleeding and bowed.

But the promise was given--the beautiful arc, With its brilliant profusion of colors, that spanned The sky on that exquisite eve, was the mark Of the Infinite Love overarching the land:

And that Love, shining richly and full as the day, Through the tear-drops that moisten each martyr's proud pall, On the gloom of the past the bright bow shall display Of Freedom, Peace, Victory, bent over all.

Stonewall Jackson.

Mortally wounded--"_The Brigade must not know, sir._"

"Who've ye got there?"--"Only a dying brother, Hurt in the front just now." "Good boy! he'll do. Somebody tell his mother Where he was killed, and how."

"Whom have you there?"--"A crippled courier, major, Shot by mistake, we hear. He was with Stonewall." "Cruel work they've made here: Quick with him to the rear!"