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 SONGS OF THE SOUTH 
 
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'' But stay ! What subtle notes are these 
 Borne on the fragrant Southern breeze 
 From out the palms ? — strange witcheries 
 
 " Of purest art to genius wed 
 Float sweetly, grandly overhead; 
 Most willingly our souls are led 
 
 " Thro' paths of fancy and delight, 
 Whereon the sunshine, streaming bright, 
 Seems mingled tenderness and might ! 
 
 " Oh, golden lays ! no common lyre 
 Outpours those strains of love or ire, 
 All instinct with the sacred fire !" 
 
 Paul H. Hayne. 
 
I 
 
 1 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH 
 
 CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM SOUTHERN POETS 
 FROM COLONIAL TIMES TO THE PRESENT DAY 
 
 COLLECTED AND EDITED<BY 
 
 JENNIE THORNLEY XLARKE 
 
 GEORGIA NORMAL AND INDUSTRIAL COLLEGE 
 
 WITH AN APPENDIX OF BRIEF BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 
 
 AND AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 
 
 Bona, nori multa 
 
 WITH PHOTOGRAVURE ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
 1896 
 
 
~PS 55 1 
 
 .C5r 
 
 Copyright, 1896, 
 
 BY 
 
 Jennie Thornley Clarke. 
 
 Electrotyped and Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U.S.A. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 So far as the writer knows, this volume is the first of 
 American anthologies devoted wholly to verses produced 
 by Southern writers. There have been collections of the 
 war poetry of the South, and there are others that deal 
 with all forms of Southern literary talent ; but the follow- 
 ing pages are given over entirely to selections from the 
 writings of those who have made contributions to American 
 verse. 
 
 Miss Clarke has made the collection with the industry 
 and enthusiasm that are necessary to the success of such 
 an undertaking, and her selections have been made with 
 taste and judgment. She has had access to more than 
 one private collection of verses by Southern writers, and 
 has thus been able to embody here many lyrics that lived 
 a brief and fugitive life in the newspapers of their time 
 and were then forgotten. 
 
 As must be the case with all anthologies, special in their 
 purpose and limited in their scope, much will be found in 
 this volume that cannot, in the highest sense, be charac- 
 terized as poetry. This is inevitable. If the intention of 
 the editor had been to preserve verses only of the highest 
 order of merit, a very small volume would contain all that 
 has been produced in the New World since its discovery. 
 A few — a very few — American authors have produced 
 poetry that carries with it the promise of permanency, — 
 the flavor that is fragrant generation after generation. 
 
 It is neither too early nor too late to say that whatever 
 in our literature is distinctively Southern must, for that 
 
 V 
 
vi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 very reason, be distinctively American. A healthy pro- 
 vinciality has its excuse in raciness, even if, on occasion, 
 it should strike the note of prejudice. The atmosphere 
 in which our people move is clearer now than it was a 
 half-century ago. If some of us do not see differently, 
 we see farther. Many threatening and obscuring vapors 
 have been dissipated. Now, as always, people of the same 
 race and blood, under pressure of different conditions and 
 circumstances, develop different views and aims, but, in 
 this day and time, the matter of environment is taken 
 into account by wise men of every shade of behef : the 
 result being that the supersensitiveness which marked the 
 early progress of the people of all sections of the republic 
 is tempered by that spirit of good humor which, spreading 
 out from middle Georgia, has come to be recognized as a 
 distinctively national trait. 
 
 In view of these changes and developments, it is safe to 
 say that this collection of verses by Southern writers will 
 meet with a cordial reception in all parts of the country. 
 Some of the lyrics to be found in the volume have already 
 taken their place as favorites in the public mind, and a 
 great many that will be new to the reading public of to-day 
 will be found to be more than worthy of the rescuing hand 
 which Miss Clarke has held out to them. 
 
 Those who may feel disposed to criticise the collection 
 as a whole should bear in mind the fact that the scheme 
 of this anthology goes a little deeper than a mere purpose 
 to present only those selections that touch the high-water- 
 mark of minor verse. The student will find in it many 
 of the suggestions that illuminate history, — especially the 
 history of sociology, — and in this direction the least meri- 
 torious selection to be found has its proper place and use. 
 
 For the rest, the collection will stand for itself. 
 
 Joel Chandler Harris. 
 
EDITOR'S NOTE. 
 
 The verse-writers of the Southern States have not been 
 few in number, but their work, pubhshed in small volumes 
 and small editions, has not attracted the attention of col- 
 lectors, and little of it is preserved in libraries. So little 
 is to be found in the anthologies of Bryant, Whittier, Dana, 
 and other American compilers, that its conspicuous absence 
 first suggested to me the need for this compilation. 
 
 One volume would not contain all the specimens of 
 Southern poetry that we wish to preserve, and I am aware 
 of having omitted many as worthy of place here as some 
 that are included ; but I hope not to have failed in my 
 purpose, — to give representative poems of the best-known 
 authors ; to preserve favorites, some of them anonymous, 
 scattered through out-of-print books and periodicals ; to 
 place all these within easy reach of a people too careless 
 of their own poets. 
 
 The biographical notes are appended chiefly to vindicate 
 my claim that these writers are Southerners, and they, 
 therefore, contain little more than names and dates. As 
 to Southerners by adoption, there is room for difference of 
 opinion. The writings of Margaret J, Preston, Maurice 
 Thompson, and Robert Burns Wilson afford internal evi- 
 dence sufficient in their respective cases. I have accepted 
 without question the classification of James Wood David- 
 son's "Living Writers of the South" (Carleton, 1869), 
 and Miss Louise Manly' s "Southern Literature" (B. F. 
 Johnson & Co., Richmond, 1895), and in some cases I 
 may have yielded to the temptation to give the South the 
 
viii EDITOR'S NOTE. 
 
 benefit of a doubt. Where authorship is disputed, I have 
 given the poem without assuming to decide the question. 
 
 In all cases where I could ascertain that matter was 
 copyrighted, I have asked permission to use it, and thanks 
 are due to authors and publishers who have promptly and 
 kindly consented that I should make extracts or copy por- 
 traits from their publications. Among them are Messrs. 
 Charles Scribner's Sons, Frederick A. Stokes Co., Hough- 
 ton, Mifflin & Co., D. Appleton & Co.; Lothrop Publishing 
 Co., J. B. Lippincott Co., Copeland & Day, Roberts Bros., 
 and A. D. F. Randolph & Co. The portrait of Edgar 
 Allan Poe is taken from Woodbury's " Life," by permis- 
 sion of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 
 
 In conclusion, I gladly and gratefully acknowledge my 
 indebtedness to many friends, known and unknown, 
 whose prompt and generous aid has rendered this book 
 far more satisfactory than I dared to hope when I began 
 my labor of love. I pray them and others to continue 
 that kindness by suggesting any improvements that may 
 be made hereafter. As it is now, I commit it to lovers 
 of Southern literature everywhere, hoping,^ in the words 
 of Paul Hayne, that 
 
 " Not in empty air to die 
 Poet and song have passed us by, 
 With all their varied harmony." 
 
 Jennie Thornley Clarke. 
 Georgia Normal and Industrial College, 
 
 MiLLEDGEVILLE, GA., July IJ , 1896. 
 
INDEX OF TITLES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Acknowledgment. By Sidney Lanier 209 
 
 After Wings. By S. M. B. Piatt ... 183 
 
 All Quiet Along the Potomac. By Lamar Fontaine/^ l . . . loi 
 
 America to Great Britain. By Washington Allston 4 
 
 Angel Watchers. By Rosa Vertner Jeffrey 93 
 
 Anise and Cummin. By Margaret J. Preston 116 
 
 Annabel Lee. By Edgar Allan Poe 42 
 
 Appendix 317 
 
 Ashes of Glory. By A. J. Requier 99 
 
 As Some Mysterious Wanderer of the Skies. By Henry J. 
 
 Stockard 281 
 
 Back-Log, The. By Innes Randolph 286 
 
 Balaklava. By Alex. Beaufort Meek 58 
 
 Beethoven and Angelo. By John B. Tabb 243 
 
 Before Death. By Margaret J. Preston 114 
 
 Bells, The. By Edgar Allan Poe 30 
 
 Bereft. By Annah Robertson Watson 296 
 
 Beside Love's Bier. By R. T. W. Duke, Jr 261 
 
 Bessie Brown, M.D. By Samuel M. Peck 265 
 
 Bivouac of the Dead. By Theodore O'Hara 70 
 
 Blemished Offering, The. By M. J. Preston 115 
 
 Blessing on the Dance, A. By Irwin Russell 253 
 
 Blind Boy, The. By Francis Lister Hawks 18 
 
 Boatman's Horn, The. By William Orlando Butler 15 
 
 Bonny Brown Hand, The. By Paul H. Hayne 146 
 
 " Bring Back my Flowers." By R. M. Charlton 28 
 
 Bronze John and his Saffron Plume. By Mary Walsingliam . 200 
 
 Buried To-day, By L. Virginia French 94 
 
 Cameo Bracelet, The. By James R. Randall 192 
 
 Captain's Feather, The. By S. M. Peck 266 
 
 Carcassonne. By John R. Thompson 83 
 
 ix 
 
X INDEX OF TITLES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Chastened Grief. By Andrew A. Lipscomb 130 
 
 Chisel- Work. By Margaret J. Preston no 
 
 Closing Year, The. By George D. Prentice 22 
 
 Conquered at Last. By Maria Lou Eve 234 
 
 -Conquered Banner, The. By Abram J. Ryan 189 
 
 Cotton Boll, The. By Henry Timrod 137 
 
 Counsel. By Mollie E. M. Davis 254 
 
 Creed. By Mary Ashley Townsend 183 
 
 Daughter of Mendoza. By Mirabeau B. Lamar 17 
 
 Death of the Maiden. By Henry M. Clarkson 198 
 
 December Rose, A. By Lizette W. Reese 305 
 
 Dinner-Horn, The, By WilHam T. Dumas 274 
 
 Dixie, By Albert Pike 47 
 
 Dixie. By Fannie M, Downing 165 
 
 Doubt, By Lizette W. Reese 306 
 
 ■Dreaming in the Trenches. By William Gordon McCabe . . 147 
 
 Drifting, By Alba Malone 304 
 
 Ebo. By A, C. Gordon 267 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe. By CUfford Lanier 214 
 
 Eleven Years Ago. By Julia Bacon 155 
 
 Elusion. By George Herbert Sass 226 
 
 Endymion. By Susan Archer Weiss 152 
 
 Eve of All Saints. By Madison Cawein 300 
 
 Every Year, By Albert Pike 44 
 
 Exile to his Wife. By Joseph Brennan 131 
 
 Fair Daughter of the Sun. By Robert Burns Wilson .... 246 
 
 Father Damien. By John B. Tabb 243 
 
 Favorite of Five. By S. M. B. Piatt 182 
 
 Fawn, The. By Maurice Thompson 220 
 
 Fig-Merchant, The. By Margaret J. Preston 119 
 
 " Florence Vane. By Philip Pendleton Cooke 63 
 
 Ganges Dream, A. By Theo. H. Hill 176 
 
 Georgia Volunteer, A. By Mary Ashley Townsend 185 
 
 Going Out and Coming In. By M. E. M. Davis 255 
 
 Gone Forward. By Margaret J. Preston 118 
 
 " Graves Stood Tenantless, The." By Mel R. ColqurtJ; . . , 260 
 
 Guard thine Action. By Sallie A. V. R. Malone 126 
 
 Guy de Mayne. By Susan Archer Weiss 150 
 
INDEX OF TITLES. xi 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Hark to the Shouting Wind. By Henry Timrod 135 
 
 Haunted. By EHza Frances Andrews 232 
 
 Haunted Palace, The. By Edgar Allan Poe 41 
 
 Health, A. By Edward Coate Pinckney 20 
 
 Heroism. By Lizette W. Reese ' 306 
 
 He Who hath loved. By Walter Malone 294 
 
 I have seen this Place before. By Catherine A. Warfield ... 64 
 
 I Miss Thee. Anonymous 313 
 
 Impennate. By Lulah Ragsdale 308 
 
 In looking on the Happy Autumn Fields. By James Lane 
 
 Allen 280 
 
 -Insomnia. By John B. Tabb 243 
 
 In the Wheat-Field. By Paul H. Hayne 144 
 
 Irish Fairy Story, An. By S. M. B. Piatt 179 
 
 I shall find Rest. By Robert Burns Wilson 245 
 
 I sigh for the Land of the Cypress and Pine. By Samuel Henry 
 
 Dickson 19 
 
 Israfel. By Edgar Allan Poe 39 
 
 John Pelham. By James R. Randall 196 
 
 Juliette. By Joel Chandler Harris 237 
 
 Keats. By Robert Burns Wilson 244 
 
 Kin. By Asa Rogers Watson 213 
 
 Lament of the Captive. By R. H. Wilde 13 
 
 Last Slumber, The. By Myrta Lockett Avary 300 
 
 Leave Me not Yet, My Mother ! By M. E. Drew 314 
 
 Lesson of the Leaf, The. By Charles W. Hubner 167 
 
 Life. By Francis Scott Key 7 
 
 Lines on Old Blandford Church. By Eliza L. Hening .... 52 
 
 Little Giffen. By Frank O. Ticknor 79 
 
 Little Pilgrims. By Elvira Sydnor Miller 294 
 
 Long Ago, The. By Philo Henderson 'j'j 
 
 Love-Feast at Waycross, The. By Frank L. Stanton .... 277 
 
 Magnolia Blossom, A. By Annie Warren Marshall 309 
 
 Mahs' Lewis' Last Ride. By W. W. Hendree 247 
 
 Marion, the Swamp-Fox. By W. Gilmore Simms 26 
 
 Marshes of Glynn, The. By Sidney Lanier 204 
 
 Mecklenburg Declaration, The. By William C. Elam .... 230 
 
xii INDEX OF TITLES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Memories. By John Esten Cooke 143 
 
 Message of the Flowers. By M. M. Jouvenat 242 
 
 Mighty Sepulchre, The. By Mary E. Bryan 228 
 
 Missing. Anonymous 104 
 
 Mocking-Bird, The. By Sidney Lanier 213 
 
 Mocking-Bird, The. By Alex. Beaufort Meek 61 
 
 Moneyless Man, The. By Henry T. Stanton 164 
 
 Morituri Salutamus. By John Dickson Bruns 171 
 
 Music in Camp. By John R. Thompson 80 
 
 Musings. By Amelia B. Welby 69 
 
 My Babes in the Wood. By S. M. B. Piatt 181 
 
 My Castle. By S. Newton Berryhill 160 
 
 My Dead Friend. By Frank L. Stanton 278 
 
 My Laddie's Hounds. By Marguerite E. Easter 241 
 
 My Life is hke the Summer Rose. By R. H. Wilde 13 
 
 My Maryland. By James R. Randall 194 
 
 My Sorrow. By R. T. W. Duke, Jr 261 
 
 My Wife and Child. By Henry R. Jackson 75 
 
 Name in the Sand, A. By George D. Prentice 25 
 
 Ode for Decoration Day. By Henry Timrod 135 
 
 Ode to Ease. By R. H. Wilde ". . 9 
 
 Old Blandford Church. By Eliza L. Hening 52 
 
 Old Canoe, The. Anonymous 102 
 
 Old North State, The. By William Gaston 3 
 
 Old School-House. The. By W. C. Richardson 88 
 
 Only One. By Lide Meriwether 142 
 
 On seeing an Infant sleeping. By Amelia B. Welby 69 
 
 Origin of the Fiddle. By Irwin Russell 251 
 
 Our Anglo Saxon Tongue. By James Barron Hope 125 
 
 Over an Old Letter. By James Lindsay Gordon 311 
 
 Over the Sea lies Spain. By Charles W. Coleman 306 
 
 Palmetto and the Pine. By L. Virginia French 96 
 
 Passing under the Rod. By Mary S. B. D. Shindler 53 
 
 Patriotism. By John R. Thompson 85 
 
 Picture, The. By William H. Holcombe 91 
 
 Poe's Cottage at Fordham. By John Henry Boner 222 
 
 Prayer of Agur, The. By Hamilton Jay 229 
 
 Quatrain, The. By Robert Loveman . . . . ■ 304 
 
INDEX OF TITLES. xiii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Rainbow, The. By Amelia B. Welby 67 
 
 Raven, The. By Edgar Allan Poe 33 
 
 Red Old Hills of Georgia. By Henry R. Jackson 74 
 
 Regret. By Frances M. Tiernan 239 
 
 Resignation. By St. George Tucker i 
 
 River Tallulah. By William J. Grayson 8 
 
 River, The. By Mary Carter Hill 235 
 
 Sea-Side Flirtation. By Samuel M. Peck 263 
 
 Sea-Weeds. By Annie Chambers Ketchum 90 
 
 Sidney Lanier. By Waitman Barbe 298 
 
 Simple Song, A. By James Chester Rockwell 316 
 
 Siren, The. By Thomas B. Ford 293 
 
 Soldier Boy, The. By " H. M. L." 105 
 
 Soldier's Fate, The. By William H. Hayne 270 
 
 Soldier's Grave, The. By Eliza P. Nicholson 188 
 
 Somebody's Darling. By Marie La Coste 203 
 
 Song — We break the Glass. By Edward C. Pinckney .... 22 
 
 Song — Who has robbed the Ocean Cave? By John Shaw . . 2 
 
 Song for the South, A. By Samuel M. Peck 264 
 
 Song of the Chattahoochee. By Sidney Lanier 211 
 
 Song of Steam. By George W. Cutter 50 
 
 Sonnet. By Henry Timrod 136 
 
 Spring. By Henry Timrod 132 
 
 Stab, The. By Will Wallace Harney 154 
 
 Star-Spangled Banner, The. By Francis Scott Key 6 
 
 St. Augustine. By Montgomery M. Folsom 271 
 
 Stonewall Jackson's Grave. By Margaret J. Preston 120 
 
 Stonewall Jackson's Way. By J. W. Palmer 108 
 
 Struggle. By Sidney Lanier 211 
 
 Success. By Margaret A. Logan 259 
 
 Supposition, A. By Nettie Houston Bringhurst 289 
 
 Sword of Robert Lee, The. By Father Ryan 191 
 
 Tallulah. By James M. Legare 86 
 
 Thane's Saying, The. By William Preston Johnston .... 162 
 
 'Tis said that Absence conquers Love. By F. W. Thomas . . 57 
 
 To a Mocking-Bird. By H. J. Stockard 282 
 
 To an English Nightingale. By Maurice Thompson 215 
 
 To a Poet. By Danske Dandridge 284 
 
 To Mary. By John Archer Clarke 159 
 
 To my Comrade Tree. By Danske Dandridge 282 
 
xiv INDEX OF TITLES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 -^To Time,— The Old Traveller. By William H. Timrod ... 14 
 
 Two Pictures. By Mary Bayard Clarke 149 
 
 Two Selves. By Maud Andrews Ohl 297 
 
 __-Uncle Gabe's White Folks. By Thomas Nelson Page .... 257 
 
 Under the Violets. By Edward Young 66 
 
 Unequal Marriage. By Logan E. Bleckley 127 
 
 Ungenerous. By Leonora Beck 299 
 
 Virginians of the Valley. By Frank O. Ticknor 78 
 
 .-^-Virginia's Dead. Anonymous 106 
 
 Vulture, The. By Harry Stilwell Edwards 262 
 
 Washington. By James Barron Hope 124 
 
 Web of Tatting, A. By Jeannette Caruthers 290 
 
 We Met. By Laura Gwyn 157 
 
 What is Life? By SaUie A. Brock 224 
 
 What she brought me. By Harry L. Flash 170 
 
 Wife, The. By Anne Peyre Dinnies 65 
 
 Woman's Wish, A. By Mary Ashley Townsend 187 
 
 Worthiness. By Charles J. O'Malley 270 
 
 Year in Heaven, A. By Margaret J. Preston iii 
 
 — Year or Two More, A. By W. P. Rivers 128 
 
 Young Widow, The. By Robert Josselyn 56 
 
 Zollicoffer. By Harry L. Flash 169 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 (Brief Biographical Notes will be found in the Appendix.). 
 
 A 
 
 "" PAGE 
 
 Allen, James Lane 280 
 
 Allston, Washington 4 
 
 Andrews, Eliza F. (Elzey Hay) 232 
 
 Andrews, Maude. (See Okl) 297 
 
 Anonymous 102, 104, 105, 106, 313 
 
 Avary, Myrta Lockett 300 
 
 B. 
 
 Bacon, Julia 155 
 
 Barbe, Waitman 298 
 
 Beck, Leonora 299 
 
 Berryhill, S. Newton 160 
 
 Bleckley, Logan E 127 
 
 Boner, John H 222 
 
 Brennan, Joseph 131 
 
 Bringhurst, Nettie Houston 289 
 
 Brock, Sallie A. (See Putnam) 224 
 
 Bruns, John Dickson 171 
 
 Bryan, Mary Edwards 228 
 
 Butler, William Orlando 15 
 
 C. 
 
 Caruthers, Jeannette 290 
 
 Cawein, Madison 300 
 
 Charlton, Robert M 28 
 
 Clarke, John Archer 159 
 
 Clarke, Mary Bayard 149 
 
 Clarkson, Henry Mazyck 198 
 
 Coleman Charles W 306 
 
 XV 
 
xvi INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 Colquitt, Mel R 260 
 
 Cooke, John Esten 143 
 
 Cooke, Philip Pendleton 63 
 
 Cutter, George W 50 
 
 D. 
 
 Dana, Mary S. B. (See Shindler) 53 
 
 Dandridge, Danske 282 
 
 Davis, Mollie E. Moore 254 
 
 Dickson, Samuel Henry 19 
 
 Dinnies, Anna Peyre 65 
 
 Downing, Fanny M 165 
 
 Drew, Mrs. M. E 314 
 
 Duke, R. T. W., Jr 261 
 
 Dumas, William T 274 
 
 E. 
 
 Easter, Marguerite E 241 
 
 Edwards, Harry Stilwell 262 
 
 Elam, William C t . . . . 230 
 
 Eve, Maria Lou 234 
 
 F. 
 
 Flash, Harry Lynden 169 
 
 FoLSOM, Montgomery M 271 
 
 Fontaine, Lamar loi 
 
 Ford, Thomas B 293 
 
 French, L. Virginia 94 
 
 G. 
 
 Gaston, William 3 
 
 Gordon, A. C 267 
 
 Gordon, James Lindsay 311 
 
 Grayson, William J 8 
 
 GwYN, Laura 157 
 
 H. 
 
 Harney, Will Wallace 154 
 
 Harris, Joel Chandler 237 
 
 Hawks, Francis Lister 18 
 
 Hayne, Paul Hamilton 144 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. xvii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Hayne, William H 270 
 
 Henderson, Philo 77 
 
 Hendree, William Woodson 247 
 
 Hening, Eliza L 52 
 
 Hill, Mary Carter 235 
 
 Hill, Theo. H 176 
 
 Holcombe, William H 91 
 
 Hope, James Barron 124 
 
 HuBNER, Charles W 167 
 
 J- 
 
 Jackson, Henry R 74 
 
 Jay, Hamilton 229 
 
 Jeffrey, Rosa Vertner 93 
 
 Johnston, William Preston 162 
 
 Josselyn, Robert 56 
 
 JouvENAT, Mrs. M. M 242 
 
 K. 
 
 Ketchum, Annie Chambers 90 
 
 Key, Francis Scott 6 
 
 L. 
 
 La Coste, Marie 203 
 
 Lamar, Mirabeau B 17 
 
 Lanier, Clifford 214 
 
 Lanier, Sidney 204 
 
 Legare:, James M 86 
 
 Lipscomb, Andrew A 130 
 
 Logan, Margaret A 259 
 
 Loveman, Robert 304 
 
 M. 
 
 Malone, Alba 304 
 
 Malone, Sallie a. V. R 126 
 
 Malone, Walter 294 
 
 Marshall, Annie Warren . 309 
 
 McCabe, William Gordon 147 
 
 Meek, Alexander Beaufort 58 
 
 Meriwether, Mrs. Lide 142 
 
 Miller, Elvira Sydnor 294 
 
 Moore, Mollie E, (See Davis) 255 
 
xviii INDEX OF A UTHORS. 
 
 N. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Nicholson, Eliza Poitevent (" Pearl Rivers") i88 
 
 O. 
 
 O'Hara, Theodore 70 
 
 Ohl, Maude Andrews 297 
 
 O'Malley, Charles J 270 
 
 P. 
 
 Page, Thomas Nelson 257 
 
 Palmer, John Williamson 108 
 
 Peck, Samuel Minturn 263 
 
 Piatt, Sarah M. B 179 
 
 Pike, Albert 44 
 
 PiNCKNEY, Edward Coate 20 
 
 Poe, Edgar Allan 30 
 
 Prentice, George Denison 22 
 
 Preston, Margaret Junkin no 
 
 Putnam, Sallie A 224 
 
 R. 
 
 Ragsdale, Lulah 308 
 
 Randall, James Ryder 192 
 
 Randolph, Innes 286 
 
 Reese, Lizette Woodworth 305 
 
 Reid, Christian. (See Tiernan) 239 
 
 Requier, Augustus Julian 99 
 
 Richardson, W. C 88 
 
 Rivers, Pearl. (See Nicholson) 188 
 
 Rivers, William Penn 128 
 
 Rockwell, James Chester 316 
 
 Russell, Irwin 251 
 
 Ryan, Abram J. (Father Ryan) 189 
 
 S. 
 
 Sass, George Herbert .226 
 
 Shaw, John 2 
 
 Shindler, Mary S. B. Dana 53 
 
 SIMMS, William Gilmore. . 26 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. xix 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Stanton, Frank Lebby 277 
 
 Stanton, Henry T 164 
 
 Stockard, Henry Jerome 281 
 
 T. 
 
 Tabb, John B 243 
 
 Talley, Susan Archer. (See Weiss) 150 
 
 Thomas, Frederick W 57 
 
 Thompson, John Reuben 80 
 
 Thompson, Maurice 215 
 
 TiCKNOR, Francis Orrery 78 
 
 Tiernan, Frances Fisher 239 
 
 TiMROD, Henry 132 
 
 Timrod, William H 14 
 
 Tovvnsend, Mary Ashley 183 
 
 Tucker, St. George i 
 
 W. 
 
 Walsingham, Mary 200 
 
 Warfield, Catherine A 64 
 
 Watson, Annah Robertson 296 
 
 Watson, Asa Rogers 213 
 
 Weiss. Susan Archer Talley 150 
 
 Welby, Amklia B 67 
 
 Wilde, Richard Henry 9 
 
 Wilson, Robert Burns 244 
 
 Y. 
 
 Young, Edward 66 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Sidney Lanier Frontispiece. 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe 30 
 
 Albert Pike 44 
 
 Margaret J. Preston no 
 
 Paul H. Hayne 144 
 
 James Ryder Randall 192 
 
 Maurice Thompson 216 
 
 Samuel Minturn Peck 264 
 
 Danske Dandridge 282 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH 
 
 RESIGNATION ; OR, DAYS OF MY YOUTH. 
 
 ST. GEORGE TUCKER. 
 
 Days of my youth, 
 
 Ye have glided away ; 
 Hairs of my youth. 
 
 Ye are frosted and gray ; 
 Eyes of my youth. 
 
 Your keen sight is no more ; 
 Cheeks of my youth, 
 
 Ye are furrowed all o'er ; 
 Strength of my youth, 
 
 All your vigor is gone ; 
 Thoughts of my youth, 
 
 Your gay visions are flown. 
 
 II. 
 
 Days of my youth, 
 
 I wish not your recall ; 
 Hairs of my youth, 
 
 I'm content ye should fall ; 
 Eyes of my youth. 
 
 You much evil have seen ; 
 Cheeks of my youth, 
 
 Bathed in tears have you been ; 
 
SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Thoughts of my youth, 
 You have led me astray ; 
 
 Strength of my youth. 
 Why lament your decay ? 
 
 III. 
 Days of my age. 
 
 Ye will shortly be past ; 
 Pains of my age, 
 
 Yet a while ye can last ; 
 Joys of my age. 
 
 In true wisdom delight ; 
 Eyes of my age. 
 
 Be religion your light ; 
 Thoughts of my age. 
 
 Dread ye not the cold sod ; 
 Hopes of my age, 
 
 Be ye fixed on your God. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 JOHN SHAW. 
 
 Who has robb'd the ocean cave. 
 
 To tinge thy lips with coral hue ? 
 Who, from India's distant wave, 
 
 For thee, those pearly treasures drew ? 
 Who, from yonder orient sky, 
 Stole the morning of thine eye ? 
 
 Thousand charms, thy form to deck, 
 
 From sea, and earth, and air are torn ; 
 Roses bloom upon thy cheek, 
 
 On thy breath their fragance borne. 
 Guard thy bosom from the day, 
 Lest thy snows should melt away. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 But one charm remains behind, 
 
 Which mute earth can ne'er impart ; 
 Nor in ocean wilt thou find, 
 
 Nor in the circHng air — a heart ; 
 Fairest, wouldst thou perfect be, 
 Take, O take that heart from me ! 
 
 THE OLD NORTH STATE FOREVER. 
 
 WILLIAM GASTON. 
 
 Carolina ! Carohna ! Heaven's blessings attend her ! 
 While we Hve, we will cherish and love and defend her ; 
 Though the scorner may sneer at, and witlings defame 
 
 her, 
 Our hearts swell with gladness, whenever we name her. 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! the old North State forever ! 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! the good old North State. 
 
 Though she envies not others their merited glory. 
 Say, whose name stands the foremost in Liberty's story ! 
 Though too true to herself, e'er to crouch to oppression, 
 Who can yield to just rule more royal submission ? 
 Hurrah, etc. 
 
 Plain and artless her sons, but whose doors open faster, 
 At the knock of the stranger, or the tale of disaster ? 
 How like to the rudeness of their dear native mountains. 
 With rich ore in their bosoms, and Hfe in their fountains. 
 Hurrah, etc. 
 
 And her daughters, the queen of the forest resembling, 
 So graceful, so constant, yet to gentlest breath trembling, 
 
4 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 And true lightwood, at heart, let the match be appUed 
 
 them, 
 How they kindle and flame, oh, none know but who've 
 
 tried them ! 
 Hurrah, etc. 
 
 Then let all who love us, love the land that we live in 
 
 (As happy a region as on this side of Heaven), 
 
 Where Plenty and Freedom, Love and Peace smile before 
 
 us. 
 Raise aloud, raise together, the heart-thrilling chorus ! 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! the old North State forever ! 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! the good old North State, 
 
 AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. 
 
 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 
 
 All hail ! thou noble land. 
 
 Our fathers' native soil ! 
 O stretch thy mighty hand, 
 
 Gigantic grown by toil, 
 O' er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore ; 
 
 For thou, with magic might, 
 
 Canst reach to where the light 
 
 Of Phoebus travels bright 
 The world o'er ! 
 
 The genius of our clime, 
 
 From his pine-embattled steep. 
 Shall hail the great sublime ; 
 
 While the Tritons of the deep 
 With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Then let the world combine, — 
 O'er the main our naval line, 
 Like the milky-way, shall shine 
 Bright in fame ! 
 
 Though ages long have pass'd 
 
 Since our fathers left their home, 
 Their pilot in the blast, 
 
 O'er untravel'd seas to roam, 
 Yet lives the blood of England in our veins ! 
 
 And shall we not proclaim 
 
 That blood of honest fame. 
 
 Which no tyranny can tame 
 By its chains ? 
 
 While the language, free and bold. 
 
 Which the bard of Avon sung. 
 In which our Milton told 
 
 How the vault of heaven rung, 
 When Satan, blasted, fell with his host ? 
 
 While this, with reverence meet, 
 
 Ten thousand echoes greet, 
 
 From rock to rock repeat 
 Round our coast ; 
 
 While the manners, while the arts. 
 
 That mould a nation's soul, 
 Still cling around our hearts, 
 
 Between let ocean roll. 
 Our joint communion breaking with the sun : 
 
 Yet, still, from either beach, 
 
 The voice of blood shall reach. 
 
 More audible than speech, 
 " We are one !" 
 
 I* 
 
6 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 
 
 FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. 
 
 Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 
 
 What so proudly we hailed at the twihght' s last gleaming, 
 Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous 
 fight, 
 O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly stream- 
 ing ? 
 And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
 Gave proof through the night— that our flag was still there ; 
 Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? 
 
 On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 
 Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 
 
 What is that which the breeze o' er the towering steep 
 As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses ? 
 
 Now it catches the gleam of the morning' s first beam ; 
 
 Its full glory reflected now shines on the stream ; 
 
 'Tis the star-spangled banner, oh ! long may it wave 
 
 O' er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 
 
 And where is the band who so vauntingly swore. 
 
 Mid the havoc of war and the battle's confusion, 
 A home and a country they'd leave us no more? 
 
 Their blood hath washed out their foul footsteps' pollu- 
 tion ; 
 No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
 From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave. 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 
 
 Oh ! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 
 
 Between their loved home and the war' s desolation ; 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 7 
 
 Blessed with victory and peace, may the Heaven-rescued 
 
 land 
 Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a 
 
 nation. 
 Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, 
 And this be our motto, " In God is our trust," 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. 
 
 If life's pleasures cheer thee. 
 
 Give them not thy heart. 
 Lest the gifts ensnare thee 
 
 From thy God to part : 
 His praises speak. His favor seek. 
 
 Fix there thy hopes' foundation ; 
 Love him, and He shall ever be 
 
 The Rock of thy salvation. 
 
 If sorrow e'er befall thee, 
 
 Painful though it be. 
 Let not fear appall thee, 
 
 To thy Saviour flee : 
 He, ever near, thy prayer will hear. 
 
 And calm thy perturbation ; 
 The waves of woe shall ne'er o'erflow 
 
 The Rock of thy salvation. 
 
 Death shall never harm thee, 
 
 Shrink not from his blow. 
 For thy God shall arm thee. 
 
 And victory bestow : 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 For death shall bring to thee no sting, 
 
 The grave no desolation ; 
 'Tis gain to die, with Jesus nigh. 
 
 The Rock of thy salvation. 
 
 THE RIVER TALLULAH. 
 
 WILLIAM J. GRAYSON. 
 
 Beyond Tallulah's giant den, 
 
 A mountain rent by Nature' s throes. 
 Where roaring down the rocky glen. 
 
 The stormy torrent falls or flows ; 
 Its waters now a quiet stream. 
 
 Now plunging from the giddy steep, 
 Down rapids now they foam and gleam. 
 
 In gloomy pools unfathomed sleep ; 
 From the rent rock you gaze below, 
 
 The heart with awe and terror stirred. 
 You hardly see the torrent flow, 
 
 Its fearful voice is faintly heard ; 
 Half down, the hovering crow appears 
 
 A moving speck ; from rifted beams 
 Of granite grown, the pine, that rears 
 
 Its towering trunk, a sapling seems. 
 
 Turn from the din ; a calmer scene. 
 
 More soft and still, invites your sight ; 
 Beneath your feet, a sea of green 
 
 Fills the charmed heart with new delight ; 
 Down from the mountain-top you gaze ; 
 Far, deep below, the verdant maze 
 
 Of forest still unbroken lies ; 
 And farther yet, a line of blue 
 Catches at last the gazer' s view, 
 
 The ocean seems to meet his eyes ; 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 With ecstasy beyond control 
 
 He sees, while Fancy's magic power 
 With witching influence rules the hour, 
 
 The surges break, the billows roll. 
 
 ODE TO EASE. 
 
 RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 
 
 I NEVER bent at glory's shrine, 
 
 To wealth I never bowed the knee. 
 
 Beauty has heard no vows of mine, 
 I love thee, Ease, and only thee. 
 
 Beloved of the gods and men, 
 Sister of joy and liberty. 
 
 When wilt thou visit me again, 
 
 In lonely wood or silent glen, 
 
 By falling stream or rocky den. 
 
 Like those where once I found thee, when, 
 
 Despite the ills of poverty, 
 
 And wisdom's warning prophecy, 
 
 I listened to thy siren voice, 
 
 And made thee mistress of my choice ? 
 
 I chose thee. Ease ! and glory fled ; 
 For me no more her laurels spread, 
 Her golden crown shall never shed 
 Its beams of splendor round my head. 
 And when within the narrow bed. 
 To fame and memory ever dead. 
 
 My wretched corse is thrown, 
 No stately column, sculptur'd bust, 
 Nor urn that holds within its trust 
 The poor remains of mortal dust. 
 
 Nor monumental stone : 
 
lO SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Nor willow waving in the gale, 
 Nor feeble fence with whitened pale, 
 Nor rustic cross, memorial frail. 
 Shall mark the grave I own. 
 
 No lofty deeds in armor wrought. 
 
 No hidden truths in science taught. 
 
 No undiscovered regions sought, 
 
 Nor classic page with learning fraught, 
 
 Nor eloquence, nor verse divine. 
 
 No daring speech, nor high design, 
 
 Nor patriotic act of mine. 
 
 On hist'ry's page shall ever shine ; 
 
 But to all future ages lost. 
 
 Not even a wreck, tradition tossed. 
 
 Of what I was when valued most 
 
 By the few friends whose love I boast. 
 
 In after years shall float to shore, 
 
 And serve to tell the name I bore. 
 
 I chose thee. Ease ! and wealth withdrew, 
 
 Indignant at the choice I made, 
 And to her first resentment true, 
 
 My scorn with tenfold scorn repaid ; 
 Now, noble palace, lofty dome, 
 Or cheerful, hospitable home. 
 
 Are comforts I must never know ; 
 My enemies shall ne' er repine 
 At pomp or pageantry of mine, 
 Nor prove, by bowing at my shrine. 
 
 Their souls are abject, base, and low. 
 
 No wondering crowd shall ever stand 
 With gazing eye and waving hand, 
 
 To mark my train, and pomp, and show 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. n 
 
 And worst of all, I shall not live 
 To taste the pleasures wealth can give, 
 When used to soothe another's woe. 
 The peasants of my native land 
 Shall never praise my open hand ; 
 
 No wandering bard shall celebrate 
 His patron's hospitable gate ; 
 No war-worn soldier, shattered tar, 
 Nor exile driven from afar, 
 Nor helpless friend of former years, 
 Nor widow's prayers, nor orphan's tears, 
 Nor helpless age relieved from cares, 
 Nor innocence preserved from snares. 
 Nor homeless wanderer clothed and fed. 
 Nor slaves from bitter bondage led. 
 Nor youth to noble actions bred. 
 Shall call down blessings on my head. 
 
 I chose thee. Ease ! and yet the while, 
 So sweet was beauty's scornful smile, 
 So fraught with every lovely wile. 
 Yet seemingly so void of guile, 
 It did but heighten all her charms ; 
 And, Goddess, had I loved thee then 
 With but the common love of men. 
 My fickle heart had changed again 
 Even at the very moment when 
 I woo'd thee to my longing arms : 
 For never may I hope to meet 
 A smile so sweet, so heavenly sweet ! 
 
 I chose thee. Ease ! and now for me 
 No heart shall ever fondly swell, 
 No voice of soothing melody 
 Awake the music-breathing shell ; 
 
12 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 No tongue of rapturous harmony 
 Its love in faltering accents tell ; 
 Nor flushing cheek, nor languid eye, 
 Nor sportive smile, nor artless sigh, 
 Confess affection all as well. 
 No snowy bosom's fall and rise, 
 Shall e'er again enchant my eyes ; 
 No melting lips, profuse of bliss, 
 Shall ever greet me with a kiss ; 
 Nor balmy breath pour in mine ear 
 The trifles love delights to hear ; 
 But living, loveless, hopeless, I, 
 Unmourned and unloved, must die. 
 
 I chose thee, Ease ! and yet to me, 
 
 Coy and ungrateful thou hast proved, 
 Though I have sacrificed to thee 
 
 Much that was worthy to be loved. 
 But come again, and I will yet 
 Thy past ingratitude forget. 
 Oh, come again ! Thy witching powers 
 Shall claim my solitary hours : 
 With thee to cheer me, heavenly queen. 
 And conscience clear, and health serene. 
 And friends and books to banish spleen. 
 My life should be as it had been, 
 
 A sweet variety of joys ; 
 And glory's crown and beauty's smile. 
 And treasured hoards should seem the while 
 
 The idlest of all human toys. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 13 
 
 THE LAMENT OF THE CAPTIVE ; OR, MY LIFE 
 IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. 
 
 RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 
 
 My life is like the summer rose 
 
 That opens to the morning sky, 
 But ere the shades of evening close. 
 Is scatter' d on the ground — to die ! 
 Yet on the rose's humble bed 
 The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
 As if she wept such waste to see ; 
 But none shall weep a tear for me ! 
 
 My hfe is like the autumn leaf 
 
 That trembles in the moon's pale ray ; 
 Its hold is frail, its date is brief, 
 
 Restless, and soon to pass away ! 
 Yet ere that leaf shall fall and fade, 
 The parent tree will mourn its shade ; 
 The winds bewail the leafless tree, 
 But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 
 
 My Hfe is like the print which feet 
 Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; 
 
 Soon as the rising tide shall beat. 
 All trace will vanish from the sand ; 
 
 Yet still, as grieving to efface 
 
 All vestige of the human race. 
 
 On that lone shore loud moans the sea ; 
 
 But none shall e'er lament for me ! 
 
14 SONGS OF THE SOUTH, 
 
 TO TIME.— THE OLD TRAVELLER. 
 
 WILLIAM H. TIMROD. 
 
 They slander thee, Old Traveller, 
 
 Who say that thy delight 
 Is to scatter ruin, far and wide, 
 
 In thy wantonness of might ; 
 For not a leaf that falleth 
 
 Before thy restless wings. 
 But in thy flight thou changest it 
 
 To a thousand brighter things. 
 
 Thou passest o'er the battle-field, 
 
 Where the dead lie stiff and stark ; 
 Where naught is heard save the vulture' s scream, 
 
 And the gaunt wolfs famished bark ; 
 But thou hast caused the grain to spring 
 
 From the blood-enriched clay. 
 And the waving corn-tops seem to dance 
 
 To the rustic's merry lay. 
 
 Thou hast strewed the lordly palace 
 
 In ruins o'er the ground, 
 And the dismal screech of the owl is heard 
 
 Where the harp was wont to sound ; 
 But the self-same spot thou coverest 
 
 With the dwellings of the poor, 
 And a thousand happy hearts enjoy 
 
 What one usurped before ! 
 
 'Tis true thy progress layeth 
 
 Full many a loved one low, 
 And for the brave and beautiful 
 
 Thou hast caused our tears to flow ; 
 
SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 But always near the couch of death 
 Nor thou, nor we can stay, 
 
 And the breath of thy departing wings 
 Dries all our tears away ! 
 
 15 
 
 THE BOATMAN'S HORN. 
 
 WILLIAM O. BUTLER. 
 
 O BOATMAN ! wind that horn again, 
 
 For never did the listening air 
 
 Upon its ambient bosom bear 
 So wild, so soft, so sweet a strain ! 
 What tho' thy notes are sad and few, 
 
 By every simple boatman blown. 
 Yet is each pulse to nature true, 
 
 And melody in every tone. 
 How oft in boyhood's joyous day. 
 
 Unmindful of the lapsing hours, 
 I've loitered on my homeward way 
 
 By wild Ohio's bank of flowers ; 
 While some lone boatman from the deck 
 
 Poured his soft numbers to the tide, 
 As if to charm from storm and wreck 
 
 The boat where all his fortunes ride. 
 
 Delighted, Nature drank the sound, 
 Enchanted, Echo bore it round. 
 In whispers soft and softer still, 
 From hill to plain and plain to hill. 
 Till e'en the thoughtless frolic boy. 
 Elate with hope and wild with joy. 
 Who gambolled by the river's side 
 And sported with the fretting tide, 
 
1 6 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Feels something new pervade his breast, 
 
 Change his hght steps, repress his jest, 
 
 Bends o'er the flood his eager ear. 
 
 To catch the sounds far off, yet dear — 
 
 Drinks the sweet draught, but knows not why 
 
 The tear of rapture fills his eye. 
 
 And can he now, to manhood grown. 
 
 Tell v/hy those notes, simple and lone, 
 
 As on the ravished ear they fell, 
 
 Bound every sense in magic spell ? 
 
 There is a tide of feeling given 
 
 To all on earth — its fountain, heaven — 
 
 Beginning with the dewy flower 
 
 Just ope'd in Flora's vernal bower, 
 
 Rising creation's orders through. 
 
 With louder murmur, brighter hue. 
 
 'Tis sympathy. Its ebb and flow 
 
 Give hfe its hue, its joy, and woe. 
 
 Music, the spirit that can move 
 
 Its waves to war or lull to love. 
 
 Can cheer the sailor mid the wave, 
 
 And bid the warrior dare the grave, 
 
 Inspire the pilgrim on the road 
 
 And fire his soul to claim his God. 
 
 Then, boatman, wind that horn again ; 
 Though much of sorrow mark its strain, 
 Yet are its notes to sorrow dear ; 
 What tho' they wake fond memory's tear, 
 Tears are sad memory's sacred feast, 
 And rapture oft her chosen guest. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 THE DAUGHTER OF MENDOZA. 
 
 MIRABEAU B. LAMAR. 
 
 Oh, lend to me, sweet nightingale, 
 Your music by the fountains ; 
 
 And lend to me your cadences, 
 Oh, river of the mountains, 
 
 That I may sing my gay brunette, 
 
 A diamond spark in coral set. 
 
 Gem for a prince's coronet, — 
 The daughter of Mendoza. 
 
 How brilliant is the morning star ; 
 
 The evening star how tender ; 
 The light of both is in her eyes, — 
 
 Their softness and their splendor. 
 But for the lash that shades their sight. 
 They were too dazzling for the light, 
 And when she shuts them all is night, — 
 
 The daughter of Mendoza. 
 
 Oh, ever bright and beauteous one. 
 
 Bewildering and beguiling, 
 The lute is in thy silvery tone. 
 
 The rainbow in thy smiling. 
 And thine is, too, o'er hill and dell. 
 The bounding of the young gazelle, 
 The arrow's flight and ocean's swell, — 
 
 Sweet daughter of Mendoza. 
 
 What though, perchance, we meet no more 
 
 What though too soon we sever ; 
 Thy form will float like emerald light 
 Before my vision ever. 
 b 2* 
 
 17 
 
1 8 SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 For who can see an. dien forget 
 
 The glories of my gay brunette ? 
 
 Thou art too bright a star to set, 
 
 Fair daughter of Mendoza. 
 
 THE BLIND BOY. 
 
 BY FRANCIS L. HAWKS. 
 
 It was a blessed summer day : 
 
 The flowers bloomed, the air was mild 
 
 The little birds poured forth their lay, 
 And everything in nature smiled. 
 
 In pleasant thought I wandered on, 
 Beneath the deep wood's ample shade, 
 
 Till suddenly I came upon 
 
 Two children, who had hither strayed. 
 
 Just at an aged beech-tree' s foot 
 A little boy and girl reclined ; 
 
 His hand in hers she kindly put. 
 And then I saw the boy was blind. 
 
 The children knew not I was near, — 
 A tree concealed me from their view ; 
 
 But all they said I well could hear. 
 And I could see all they might do. 
 
 "Dear Mary," said the poor blind boy, 
 "That little bird sings very long : 
 
 Say, do you see him in his joy ? 
 Is he as pretty as his song?" 
 
 "Yes, Edward, yes," repHed the maid, 
 " I see the bird on yonder tree." 
 
 The poor boy sighed and gently said, 
 ' ' Sister. I wish that I could see. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 19 
 
 " The flowers, ^o'u say, are very fair. 
 And bright green leaves are on the trees, 
 
 And pretty birds are singing there, — 
 How beautiful to one who sees ! 
 
 "Yet I the fragrant flowers can smell, 
 And I can feel the green leaf's shade. 
 
 And I can hear the notes that swell 
 
 From those dear birds that God has made. 
 
 "So, sister, God to me is kind, 
 Though sight, alas ! He has not given ; 
 
 But tell me, are there any blind 
 
 Among the children up in heaven ?' ' 
 
 " No, dearest Edward, there all see : — 
 
 But why ask me a thing so odd ?' ' 
 " Oh, Mary, He's so good to me, 
 
 I thought I'd like to look at God." 
 
 Ere long, disease its hand had laid 
 On that dear boy, so meek and mild. 
 
 His widowed mother wept, and prayed 
 That God would spare her sightless child. 
 
 He felt her warm tears on her face. 
 And said, " Oh, never weep for me : 
 
 I'm going to a bright, bright place. 
 Where, Mary says, I God shall see." 
 
 I SIGH FOR THE LAND OF THE CYPRESS 
 AND PINE. 
 
 SAMUEL HENRY DICKSON. 
 
 I SIGH for the land of the cypress and pine. 
 Where the jessamine blooms, and the gay woodbine ; 
 Where the moss droops low from the green oak-tree, — 
 Oh, that sun-bright land is the land for me ! 
 
20 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 The snowy flower of the orange there 
 Sheds its sweet fragrance through the air ; 
 And the Indian rose deUghts to twine 
 Its branches with the laughing vine. 
 
 There the deer leaps light through the open glade, 
 Or hides him far in the forest shade, 
 When the woods resound in the dewy morn 
 With the clang of the merry hunter's horn. 
 
 There the humming-bird, of rainbow plume. 
 Hangs over the scarlet creeper's bloom ; 
 While 'midst the leaves his varying dyes 
 Sparkle like half-seen fairy eyes. 
 
 There the echoes ring through the livelong day 
 With the mock-bird' s changeful roundelay ; 
 And at night, when the scene is calm and still, 
 With the moan of the plaintive whip-poor-will. 
 
 Oh ! I sigh for the land of the cypress and pine, 
 Of the laurel, the rose, and the gay woodbine ; 
 Where the long, gray moss decks the rugged oak-tree, 
 That sun-bright land is the land for me. 
 
 A HEALTH. 
 
 EDWARD C. PINCKNEY. 
 
 I FILL this cup to one made up 
 
 Of loveliness alone, 
 A woman, of her gentle sex 
 
 The seeming paragon ; 
 To whom the better elements 
 
 And kindly stars have given 
 A form so fair that, like the air, 
 
 'Tis less of earth than heaven. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 21 
 
 Her every tone is music's own, 
 
 Like those of morning birds ; 
 And something more than melody 
 
 Dwells ever in her words ; 
 The coinage of her heart are they, 
 
 And from her lips each flows 
 As one may see the burden' d bee 
 
 Forth issue from the rose. 
 
 Affections are as thoughts to her, 
 
 The measures of her hours ; 
 Her feehngs have the fragrancy, 
 
 The freshness of young flowers ; 
 And lovely passions, changing oft, 
 
 So fill her, she appears 
 The image of themselves by turns, — 
 
 The idol of past years ! 
 
 Of her bright face one glance will trace 
 
 A picture on the brain, 
 And of her voice in echoing hearts, 
 
 A sound must long remain ; 
 But memory, such as mine of her, 
 
 So very much endears, 
 When death is nigh, my latest sigh 
 
 Will not be life's, but hers. 
 
 I fill'd this cup to one made up 
 
 Of loveliness alone, 
 A woman, of her gentle sex 
 
 The seeming paragon. 
 Her health ! and would on earth there stood 
 
 Some more of such a frame. 
 That life might be all poetry, 
 
 And weariness a name. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 SONG. 
 
 EDWARD C. PINCKNEY. 
 
 We break the glass, whose sacred wine, 
 
 To some beloved health we drain, 
 Lest future pledges, less divine. 
 
 Should e'er the hallowed toy profane ; 
 And thus I broke a heart that pour'd 
 
 Its tide of feelings out for thee 
 In draughts, by after-times deplored, 
 
 Yet dear to memory. 
 
 But still the old, impassion' d ways 
 
 And habits of my mind remain, 
 And still unhappy light displays 
 
 Thine image chamber' d in my brain, 
 And still it looks as when the hours 
 
 Went by like flights of singing birds, 
 Or that soft chain of spoken flowers 
 
 And airy gems, — thy words. 
 
 THE CLOSING YEAR. 
 
 GEORGE D. PRENTICE. 
 
 'Tis midnight's holy hour — and silence now 
 
 Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er 
 
 The still and pulseless world. Hark ! on the winds 
 
 The bells' deep tones are swelling. *Tis the knell 
 
 Of the departed year. 
 
 No funeral train 
 Is sweeping past ; yet on the stream and wood. 
 With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest. 
 Like a pale, spotless shroud ; the air is stirred 
 As by a mourner's sigh ; and on yon cloud, 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 23 
 
 That floats so still and placidly through heaven, 
 
 The spirits of the seasons seem to stand — 
 
 Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, 
 
 And Winter with his aged locks — and breathe 
 
 In mournful cadences, that come abroad 
 
 Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, 
 
 A melancholy dirge o' er the dead year, 
 
 Gone from the earth forever. 
 
 'Tis a time 
 For memory and for tears. Within the deep, 
 Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, 
 Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time 
 Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold 
 And solemn finger to the beautiful 
 And holy visions that have passed away 
 And left no shadow of their loveliness 
 On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts 
 The coffin-lid of hope, and joy, and love, 
 And, bending mournfully above the pale, 
 Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers 
 O'er what has passed to nothingness. 
 
 The year 
 Has gone, and with it many a glorious throng 
 Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow. 
 Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course, 
 It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful. 
 And they are not. It laid its pallid hand 
 Upon the strong man, and the haughty form 
 Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. 
 It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged 
 The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail 
 Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song 
 And reckless shout resounded. It passed o'er 
 The battle-plain, where sword and spear and shield 
 Flashed in the light of mid-day — and the strength 
 Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, 
 
24 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Green from the soil of carnage, waves above 
 The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came, 
 And faded like a wreath of mist at eve ; 
 Yet ere it melted in the viewless air. 
 It heralded its millions to their home 
 — In the dim land of dreams. 
 
 Remorseless Time ! 
 Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe ! — what power 
 Can stay him in his silent course, or melt 
 His iron heart to pity ? On, still on 
 He presses, and forever. The proud bird, 
 The condor of the Andes, that can soar 
 Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave 
 The fury of the northern hurricane 
 And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home. 
 Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down 
 To rest upon his mountain-crag. But Time 
 Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness. 
 And night' s deep darkness has no chain to bind 
 His rushing pinion. Revolutions sweep 
 O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast 
 Of dreaming sorrow ; cities rise and sink. 
 Like bubbles on the water ; fiery isles 
 Spring, blazing, from the ocean, and go back 
 To their mysterious caverns ; mountains rear 
 To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow 
 Their tall heads to the plain ; new empires rise, 
 Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, 
 And rush down like the Alpine avalanche. 
 Startling the nations ; and the very stars, 
 Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, 
 Glitter awhile in their eternal depths, 
 And like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, 
 Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away 
 To darkle in the trackless void : yet Time, 
 Time the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career. 
 
SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 25 
 
 Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not 
 Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path, 
 To sit and muse, like other conquerors. 
 Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. 
 
 A NAME IN THE SAND. 
 
 GEORGE DENISON PRENTICE. 
 
 Alone I walked the ocean strand, 
 A pearly shell was in my hand ; 
 I stooped and wrote upon the sand 
 
 My name, the year, the day : 
 As onward from the spot I passed. 
 One lingering look behind I cast, — 
 A wave came rolling high and fast 
 
 And washed my lines away. 
 
 And so, methought, 'twill quickly be 
 With every mark on earth from me : 
 A wave of dark oblivion's sea 
 
 Will sweep across the place 
 Where I have trod the sandy shore 
 Of time, and been to be no more, 
 Of me, my day, the name I bore, 
 
 To leave no track or trace. 
 
 And yet, with Him who counts the sands. 
 And holds the waters in His hands, 
 I know a lasting record stands. 
 
 Inscribed against my name. 
 Of all this mortal part has wrought. 
 Of all this thinking soul has thought. 
 All, from these fleeting moments caught. 
 
 For glory or for shame. 
 3 
 
26 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 MARION.— " THE SWAMP FOX.' 
 
 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. 
 
 We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, 
 
 His friends and merry men are we ; 
 And when the troop of Tarleton rides, 
 
 We burrow in the cypress-tree. 
 The turfy hammock is our bed. 
 
 Our home is in the red deer's den, 
 Our roof, the tree-top overhead. 
 
 For we are wild and hunted men. 
 
 We fly by day and shun its light. 
 
 But, prompt to strike the sudden blow, 
 We mount and start with early night, 
 
 And through the forest track our foe. 
 And soon he hears our chargers leap. 
 
 The flashing sabre blinds his eyes, 
 And ere he drives away his sleep. 
 
 And rushes from his camp, he dies. 
 
 Free bridle-bit, good gallant steed, 
 
 That will not ask a kind caress, 
 To swim the Santee at our need. 
 
 When on his heels the foemen press, — 
 The true heart and the ready hand, 
 
 The spirit stubborn to be free, 
 The twisted bore, the smiting brand, — 
 
 And we are Marion's men, you see. 
 
 Now light the fire and cook the meal, 
 The last perhaps that we shall taste ; 
 
 I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal, 
 And that's a sign we move in haste: 
 
SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 He whistles to the scouts, and hark ! 
 
 You hear his order calm and low. 
 Come, wave your torch across the dark, 
 
 And let us see the boys that go. 
 
 We may not see their forms again, 
 
 God help 'em, should they find the strife ! 
 For they are strong and fearless men, 
 
 And make no coward terms for life ; 
 They'll fight as long as Marion bids, 
 
 And when he speaks the word to shy, 
 Then, not till then, they turn their steeds. 
 
 Through thickening shade and swamp to fly. 
 
 Now stir the fire and lie at ease, 
 
 The scouts are gone, and on the brush 
 I see the colonel bend his knee. 
 
 To take his slumbers too. But hush ! 
 He's praying, comrades ; 'tis not strange ; 
 
 The man that' s fighting day by day 
 May well, when night comes, take a change, 
 
 And down upon his knees to pray. 
 
 Break up that hoe-cake, boys, and hand 
 
 The sly and silent jug that's there ; 
 I love not it should idly stand 
 
 When Marion's men have need of cheer. 
 *Tis seldom that our luck affords 
 
 A stuff like this we just have quaffed, 
 And dry potatoes on our boards 
 
 May always call for such a draught. 
 
 Now pile the brush and roll the log ; 
 
 Hard pillow, but a soldier's head 
 That's half the time in brake and bog 
 
 Must never think of softer bed. 
 
 27 
 
28 SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 The owl is hooting to the night, 
 The cooter crawhng o'er the bank, 
 
 And in that pond the flashing hght 
 Tells where the alligator sank. 
 
 What ! 'tis the signal ! start so soon ; 
 
 And through the Santee swamp so deep, 
 Without the aid of friendly moon, 
 
 And we, Heaven help us ! half asleep ! 
 But courage, comrades ! Marion leads. 
 
 The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night ; 
 So clear your swords and spur your steeds, 
 
 There's goodly chance, I think, of fight. 
 
 We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, 
 
 We leave the swamp and cypress-tree. 
 Our spurs are in our coursers' sides. 
 
 And ready for the strife are we. 
 The Tory camp is now in sight. 
 
 And there he cowers within his den ; 
 He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight. 
 
 He fears, and flies from Marion's men. 
 
 "BRING BACK MY FLOWERS. 
 
 R. M. CHARLTON. 
 
 A CHILD sat by a limpid stream 
 And gazed upon the tide beneath ; 
 
 Upon her cheek was joy's bright beam, 
 And on her brow a blooming wreath. 
 
 Her lap was filled with blushing flowers, 
 And as the clear brook babbled by. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 She scattered down the rosy showers 
 With many a wild and joyous cry, 
 And laughed to see the mingling tide 
 Upon its onward progress glide. 
 
 And time flew on, and flower by flower 
 
 Was cast upon the sunny stream ; 
 But when the shades of eve did low'r, 
 
 She woke up from her blissfnl dream. 
 " Bring back my flowers," she wildly cried, 
 
 " Bring back my flowers I flung to thee !" 
 But echo's voice alone replied, 
 
 As danced the streamlet down the lea : 
 And still amid night's gloomy hours 
 In vain she cried, " Bring back my flowers !" 
 
 Oh, maiden ! who on time's swift stream 
 
 Dost daily see thy moments flee. 
 In this poor child's delusive dream 
 
 An emblem thou may'st find of thee. 
 Each moment is a perfumed rose. 
 
 Into thy hand by mercy given. 
 That thou its fragrance might dispose, 
 
 And let its incense rise to heaven ; 
 Else, when death's shadow o'er thee lowers. 
 Thy heart will wail, " Bring back my flowers !" 
 
 29 
 
30 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 THE BELLS. 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells, — 
 Silver bells ! 
 What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 
 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
 
 In the icy air of night ! 
 While the stars that oversprinkle 
 All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
 
 With a crystalline delight ; 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 In a sort of Rimic rhyme. 
 To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
 From the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
 Bells, bells, bells,— 
 From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 
 
 II. 
 
 Hear the mellow wedding bells, — 
 Golden bells ! 
 What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 
 Through the balmy air of night 
 How they ring out their delight ! 
 From the molten golden notes, 
 
 And all in tune. 
 What a liquid ditty floats 
 To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
 On the moon ! 
 Oh, from out the sounding cells. 
 What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 
 How it swells ! 
 How it dwells 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 3 1 
 
 On the future ! How it tells 
 Of the rapture that impels 
 To the swinging and the ringing 
 Of the bells, bells, bells. 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells, — 
 To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Hear the loud alarum bells, — 
 
 Brazen bells ! 
 What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! 
 In the startled ear of night 
 How they scream out their affright ! 
 Too much horrified to speak. 
 They can only shriek, shriek, shriek, 
 
 Out of tune. 
 In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 
 In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, 
 Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
 With a desperate desire, 
 And a resolute endeavor 
 Now — now to sit, or never. 
 By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
 Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 
 What a tale their terror tells 
 
 Of Despair ! 
 How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 
 What a horror they outpour 
 On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 
 Yet the ear it fully knows. 
 
 By the twanging 
 
 And the clanging, 
 How the danger ebbs and flows ; 
 Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
 
32 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 In the jangling 
 And the wrangling, 
 How the danger sinks and swells, 
 By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells, 
 Of the bells,— 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells,— 
 In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hear the toUing of the bells, — 
 
 Iron bells ! 
 What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! 
 In the silence of the night. 
 How we shiver with affright 
 At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
 For every sound that floats 
 From the rust within their throats 
 
 Is a groan. 
 And the people — ah, the people — 
 They that dwell up in the steeple. 
 
 All alone, 
 And who tolhng, tolling, tolling. 
 
 In that muffled monotone. 
 Feel a glory in so rolling 
 
 On the human heart a stone : 
 They are neither man nor woman, — 
 They are neither brute nor human, — 
 
 They are Ghouls ; 
 And their king it is who tolls, — 
 And he rolls, rolls, rolls. 
 Rolls a pgean from the bells ! 
 And his merry bosom swells 
 With the paean of the bells. 
 And he dances, and he yells ; 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 33 
 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the paean of the bells, — 
 
 Of the bells : 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
 
 To the throbbing of the bells, — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells. 
 
 To the sobbing of the bells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 
 As he knells, knells, knells. 
 In the happy Runic rhyme. 
 To the rolling of the bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells. 
 To the tolHng of the bells. 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
 Bells, bells, bells,— 
 To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 
 
 THE RAVEN. 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and 
 
 weary. 
 Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, — 
 While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a 
 
 tapping. 
 As of some one gently rapping, — rapping at my chamber 
 
 door. 
 " 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber 
 
 door, — 
 
 Only this, and nothing more." 
 c 
 
34 SOJ\^GS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 
 And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the 
 
 floor. 
 Eagerly I wished the morrow ; vainly I had sought to 
 
 borrow 
 From my books surcease of sorrow, — sorrow for the lost 
 
 Lenore, — 
 For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named 
 
 Lenore, — 
 
 Nameless here for evermore. 
 
 And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
 
 Thrilled me — filled me — with fantastic terrors never felt 
 before ; 
 
 So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood re- 
 peating, 
 
 "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 
 door, — 
 
 Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door. 
 This it is, and nothing more." 
 
 Presently my soul grew stronger : hesitating then no 
 longer, 
 
 "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I 
 implore ; 
 
 But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rap- 
 ping, 
 
 And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber 
 door, 
 
 That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide 
 the door. 
 
 Darkness there, and nothing more. 
 
 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, won- 
 dering, fearing, 
 
 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream 
 before. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 35 
 
 But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no 
 
 token, 
 And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 
 
 " Lenore !" 
 This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 
 
 " Lenore !" 
 
 Merely this, and nothing mo«e. 
 
 Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me 
 burning, 
 
 Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than 
 before. 
 
 "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my win- 
 dow lattice : 
 
 Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery ex- 
 plore, — 
 
 Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery ex- 
 plore : 
 
 'Tis the wind, and nothing more." 
 
 Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and 
 
 flutter. 
 In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of 
 
 yore. 
 Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or 
 
 stayed he. 
 But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber 
 
 door, — 
 Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber 
 
 door, — 
 
 Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 
 
 Then this ebon bird beguiling my sad fancy into smihng, 
 By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 
 "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, 
 "are sure no craven. 
 
36 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the 
 
 nightly shore. 
 Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night' s Plutonian 
 
 shore !" 
 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so 
 
 plainly. 
 Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore ; 
 For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
 Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber 
 
 door, — 
 Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber 
 
 door, 
 
 With such name as " Nevermore." 
 
 But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke 
 only 
 
 That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did out- 
 pour. 
 
 Nothing further then he uttered ; not a feather then he 
 
 fluttered, — 
 Till I scarcely more than muttered, ' ' Other friends have 
 
 flown before ! 
 On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have 
 
 flown before !" 
 
 Then the bird said, "Nevermore." 
 
 Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
 " Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and 
 
 store, 
 Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful 
 
 Disaster 
 Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden 
 
 bore, — 
 Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 
 Of ' Never, — nevermore !' " 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 37 
 
 But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, 
 Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and 
 
 bust and door ; 
 Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
 Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore, 
 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous 
 
 bird of yore 
 
 Meant in croaking " Nevermore." 
 
 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
 
 To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's 
 core : 
 
 This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease re- 
 clining 
 
 On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated 
 o'er, 
 
 But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamplight gloating 
 o'er, 
 
 She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 
 
 Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an 
 
 unseen censer 
 Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted 
 
 floor. 
 "Wretch !" I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by these 
 
 angels he hath sent thee 
 Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of 
 
 Lenore ! 
 Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget the lost 
 
 Lenore !" 
 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 "Prophet !" cried I, "thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird 
 
 or devil ! — 
 Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee 
 
 here ashore, 
 
 4 
 
38 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land en- 
 chanted — 
 
 On this home by Horror haunted, — tell me truly, I im- 
 plore — 
 
 Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? Tell me ! — tell me, I 
 implore !" 
 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 "Prophet !" cried I, "thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird 
 
 or devil ! — 
 By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we 
 
 both adore ! — 
 Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant 
 
 Aidenn 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name 
 
 Lenore, — 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 
 
 Lenore." 
 
 Quoth the Raven, ' ' Nevermore. ' ' 
 
 "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I 
 
 shrieked, upstarting ; 
 ' ' Get thee back into the tempest and the Night' s Plutonian 
 
 shore ! 
 Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul 
 
 hath spoken ! 
 Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above my 
 
 door! 
 Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from 
 
 off my door !" 
 
 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 
 
 And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 
 On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door ; 
 And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is 
 dreaming. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 39 
 
 And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow 
 
 on the floor ; 
 And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the 
 
 floor 
 
 Shall be lifl;ed — nevermore ! 
 
 ISRAFEL.^ 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 In Heaven a spirit doth dwell 
 
 " Whose heartstrings are a lute." 
 
 None sing so wildly well 
 
 As the angel Israfel, 
 
 And the giddy stars (so legends tell), 
 
 Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell 
 Of his voice, all mute. 
 
 Tottering above. 
 
 In her highest noon. 
 
 The enamoured moon 
 Blushes with love, — 
 
 While, to hsten, the red levin 
 
 (With the rapid Pleiades, even, 
 
 Which were seven), 
 
 Pauses in Heaven. 
 
 And they say (the starry choir 
 And the other Hstening things) 
 
 That Israfeh's fire 
 
 Is owing to that lyre 
 
 By which he sits and sings, — 
 
 * *' And the angel Israfel, whose heartstrings are a lute, and 
 who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures." — Koran. 
 
 Author's note. 
 
40 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 The trembling living wire 
 Of those unusual strings. 
 
 But the skies that angel trod, 
 
 Where deep thoughts are a duty, — 
 
 Where Love's a grown-up God, — 
 Where the Houri glances are 
 
 Imbued with all the beauty 
 Which we worship in a star. 
 
 Therefore, thou art not wrong, 
 
 Israfeli, who despisest 
 An unimpassioned song : 
 To thee the laurels belong. 
 
 Best bard, because the wisest ! 
 Merrily live, and long ! 
 
 The ecstasies above 
 
 With thy burning measures suit — 
 
 Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, 
 With the fervor of thy lute — 
 Well may the stars be mute. 
 
 Yes, Heaven is thine ; but this 
 Is a world of sweets and sours ; 
 Our flowers are merely — flowers. 
 
 And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
 Is the sunshine of ours. 
 
 If I could dwell 
 Where Israfel 
 
 Hath dwelt, and he where I, 
 He might not sing so wildly well 
 
 A mortal melody, — 
 While a bolder note than this might swell 
 
 From my lyre within the sky. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 THE HAUNTED PALACE. 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 In the greenest of our valleys 
 
 By good angels tenanted, 
 Once a fair and stately palace — 
 
 Radiant palace — reared its head. 
 In the monarch Thought's dominion — 
 
 It stood there ! 
 Never seraph spread a pinion 
 
 Over fabric half so fair ! 
 
 Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 
 
 On its roof did float and flow 
 (This — all this — was in the olden 
 
 Time long ago), 
 And every gentle air that dallied, 
 
 In that sweet day. 
 Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 
 
 A winged odor went away. 
 
 Wanderers in that happy valley, 
 
 Through two luminous windows, saw 
 Spirits moving musically, 
 
 To a lute's well-tuned law, 
 Round about a throne where, sitting 
 
 (Porphyrogene !) 
 In state his glory well befitting. 
 
 The ruler of the realm was seen. 
 
 And all with pearl and ruby glowing 
 
 Was the fair palace door. 
 Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, 
 
 And sparkling evermore, 
 4* 
 
 41 
 
42 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 
 
 Was but to sing, 
 In voices of surpassing beauty, 
 
 The wit and wisdom of their king. 
 
 But evil things, in robes of sorrow. 
 
 Assailed the monarch's high estate. 
 (Ah, let us mourn ! — for never morrow 
 
 Shall dawn upon him desolate !) 
 And round about his home the glory 
 
 That blushed and bloomed 
 Is but a dim-remembered story 
 
 Of the old time entombed. 
 
 And travellers, now, within that valley, 
 
 Through the red-litten windows see 
 Vast forms, that move fantastically 
 
 To a discordant melody, 
 While, like a ghastly, rapid river. 
 
 Through the pale door 
 A hideous throng rush out forever 
 
 And laugh, — but smile no more. 
 
 ANNABEL LEE. 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 It was many and many a year ago, 
 
 In a kingdom by the sea. 
 That a maiden there Hved whom you may know. 
 
 By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
 And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
 
 Than to love, and be loved by me. 
 
SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 43 
 
 I was a child and she was a child, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea : 
 But we loved with a love that was more that love, — 
 
 I and my Annabel Lee ; 
 With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 
 
 Coveted her and me. 
 
 And this was the reason that, long ago, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea, 
 A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
 
 My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
 So that her high-born kinsmen came 
 
 And bore her away from me, 
 To shut her up in a sepulchre 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea. 
 
 The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 
 
 Went envying her and me, — 
 Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea) 
 That the wind came out of a cloud by night, 
 
 Chilhng and kilUng my Annabel Lee, 
 
 But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
 
 Of those who were older than we, — 
 
 Of many far wiser than we ; 
 And neither the angels in heaven above, 
 
 Nor the demons down under the sea, 
 Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 
 
 For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
 And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 
 
44 SONGS OF THE SOUTH, 
 
 And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
 Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride, 
 
 In the sepulchre there by the sea, 
 
 In her tomb by the sounding sea. 
 
 EVERY YEAR. 
 
 ALBERT PIKE. 
 
 The spring has less of brightness, 
 
 Every year ; 
 And the snow a ghastlier whiteness, 
 
 Every year. 
 Nor do summer flowers quicken. 
 Nor does autumn fruitage thicken. 
 As they once did ; for they sicken, 
 
 Every year. 
 
 Life is a count of losses. 
 
 Every year ; 
 For the weak are heavier crosses, 
 
 Every year ; 
 Lost springs with sobs replying. 
 Unto weary autumn's sighing. 
 While those we love are dying, 
 
 Every year. 
 
 It is growing darker, colder, 
 
 Every year ; 
 As the heart and soul grow older. 
 
 Every year ; 
 I care not now for dancing. 
 Or for eyes with passion glancing, 
 Love is less and less entrancing, 
 
 Every year. 
 
'm-^h 
 
 ;4^ 
 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 45 
 
 The days have less of gladness, 
 
 Every year ; 
 The nights have more of sadness, 
 
 Every year. 
 Fair springs no longer charm us. 
 The wind and weather harm us, 
 The threats of death alarm us. 
 
 Every year. 
 
 There come new cares and sorrows, 
 
 Every year ; 
 Dark days and darker morrows, 
 
 Every year ; 
 The ghosts of dead loves haunt us, 
 The ghosts of changed friends taunt us, 
 And disappointments daunt us. 
 
 Every year. 
 
 Of the loves and sorrows blended, 
 
 Every year ; 
 Of the charms of friendship ended, 
 
 Every year ; 
 Of the ties that still might bind me. 
 Until time and death resigned me, 
 My infirmities remind me. 
 
 Every year. 
 
 Our life is less worth living, 
 
 Every year ; 
 And briefer our thanksgiving, 
 
 Every year ; 
 And love, grown faint and fretful. 
 With lips but half regretful, 
 Averts its eyes, forgetful, 
 
 Every year. 
 
46 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Ah ! how sad to look before us, 
 
 Every year ; 
 While the cloud grows darker o'er us, 
 
 Every year ; 
 When we see the blossoms faded, 
 That to bloom we might have aided, 
 And immortal garlands braided, 
 
 Every year ! 
 
 To the past go more dead faces, 
 
 Every year ; 
 And the loved leave vacant places. 
 
 Every year ; 
 Everywhere the sad eyes meet us, 
 In the evening's dusk they greet us, 
 And to come to them entreat us. 
 
 Every year. 
 
 ' ' You are growing old, ' ' they tell us, 
 
 ' ' Every year. ' ' 
 ' ' You are more alone, ' ' they tell us, 
 
 " Every year." 
 " You can win no new affection. 
 You have only recollection. 
 Deeper sorrow and dejection. 
 
 Every year. ' ' 
 
 Too true ! Life's shores are shifting. 
 
 Every year ; 
 And we are seaward drifting, 
 
 Every year ; 
 Old places, changing, fret us. 
 The living more forget us, 
 There are fewer to regret us. 
 
 Every year. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 47 
 
 But the truer life draws nigher, 
 
 Every year ; 
 And its morning-star climbs higher, 
 
 Every year ; 
 Earth's hold on us grows slighter, 
 And the heavy burden lighter, 
 And the dawn immortal brighter, 
 
 Every year. 
 
 Thank God ! no clouds are shifting. 
 
 Every year ; 
 O'er the land to which we're drifting. 
 
 Every year ; 
 No losses there will grieve us, • 
 Nor loving faces leave us. 
 Nor death of friends bereave us, 
 
 Every year. 
 
 DIXIE. 
 
 ALBERT PIKE. 
 I. 
 
 Southrons, hear your country call you ! 
 Up ! lest worse than death befall you ! 
 
 To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! in Dixie ! 
 Lo ! the beacon-fires are lighted, 
 Let all hearts be now united ! 
 
 To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! in Dixie ! 
 Advance the flag of Dixie ! 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 For Dixie's land we'll take our stand, 
 To live or die for Dixie ! 
 
48 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 To arms ! to arms ! 
 
 And conquer peace for Dixie ! 
 To arms ! to arms ! 
 
 And conquer peace for Dixie ! 
 
 II. 
 Hear the Northern thunders mutter ! 
 Northern flags in South winds flutter ! 
 
 To arms ! etc. 
 Send them back your fierce defiance ! 
 Stamp upon the accursed aUiance ! 
 To arms ! etc. 
 
 Advance the flag of Dixie ! etc. 
 
 III. 
 Fear no danger ! shun no labor ! 
 Lift up rifle, pike, and sabre ! 
 
 To arms ! etc. 
 Shoulder pressing close to shoulder ! 
 Let the odds make each heart bolder ! 
 To arms ! etc. 
 
 Advance the flag of Dixie ! etc. 
 
 IV. 
 How the South' s great heart rejoices 
 At your cannon's ringing voices ! 
 
 To arms ! etc. 
 For faith betrayed and pledges broken, 
 Wrong inflicted, insults spoken. 
 To arms ! etc. 
 
 Advance the flag of Dixie ! etc. 
 
 V. 
 
 Strong as lions, swift as eagles. 
 Back to their kennels hunt these beagles ! 
 To arms ! etc. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Cut the unequal bonds asunder ! 
 Let them hence each other plunder ! 
 To arms ! etc. 
 
 Advance the flag of Dixie ! etc., 
 
 VI. 
 
 Swear upon your Country's altar 
 Never to submit or falter ; 
 
 To arms ! etc. 
 Till the spoilers are defeated, 
 Till the Lord' s work is completed. 
 
 To arms ! etc. 
 
 Advance the flag of Dixie ! etc. 
 
 vn. 
 Halt not till our federation 
 Secures among earth's Powers its station ! 
 
 To arms ! etc. 
 Then at peace, and crowned with glory, 
 Hear your children tell the story ! 
 To arms ! etc. 
 
 Advance the flag of Dixie ! etc. 
 
 VIII. 
 If the loved ones weep in sadness, 
 Victory soon shall bring them gladness ; 
 
 To arms ! etc. 
 Exultant pride soon banish sorrow ; 
 Smiles chase tears away to-morrow. 
 To arms ! etc. 
 
 Advance the flag of Dixie ! etc. 
 
 49 
 
50 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 THE SONG OF STEAM. 
 
 GEORGE W. CUTTER. 
 
 Harness me down with your iron bands, 
 
 Be sure of your curb and rein, 
 For I scorn the strength of your puny hands 
 
 As a tempest scorns a chain. 
 How I laughed as I lay concealed from sight 
 
 For many a countless hour, 
 At the childish boasts of human might, 
 
 And the pride of human power ! 
 
 When I saw an army upon the land, 
 
 A navy upon the seas, 
 Creeping along, a snail-hke band. 
 
 Or waiting the wayward breeze ; 
 When I marked the peasant faintly reel 
 
 With the toil that he daily bore, 
 As he feebly turned the tardy wheel, 
 
 Or tugged at the weary oar ; 
 
 When I measured the panting courser's speed, 
 
 The flight of the carrier dove, 
 As they bore the law a king decreed, 
 
 Or the hnes of impatient love, 
 I could but think how the world would feel. 
 
 As these were outstripped afar, 
 When I should be bound to the rushing keel. 
 
 Or chained to the flying car. 
 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! they found me at last. 
 
 They invited me forth at length. 
 And I rushed to my throne with a thunder blast. 
 
 And laughed in my iron strength ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Oh, then ye saw a wondrous change, 
 
 On the earth and ocean wide, 
 Where now my fiery armies range, 
 
 Nor wait for wind nor tide ! 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! the waters o'er. 
 
 The mountain's steep dechne : 
 Time — space — have yielded to my power : 
 
 The world, the world is mine ! 
 The rivers the sun hath earliest blest, 
 
 Or those where his beams dechne, 
 The giant streams of the queenly West, 
 
 Or the Orient floods divine. 
 
 The ocean pales wherever I sweep 
 
 To hear my strength rejoice, 
 And monsters of the briny deep 
 
 Cower trembling at my voice. 
 I carry the wealth of the lord of earth. 
 
 The thoughts of his godlike mind ; 
 The wind lags after my going forth, 
 
 The lightning is left behind. 
 
 In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine 
 
 My tireless arm doth play, 
 Where the rocks never saw the sun's dechne, 
 
 Or the dawn of the glorious day ; 
 I bring earth's glittering jewels up 
 
 From the hidden caves below, 
 And I make the fountain's granite cup 
 
 With a crystal gush o'erflow. 
 
 I blow the bellows, I forge the steel. 
 
 In all the shops of trade ; 
 I hammer the ore and turn the wheel 
 
 Where my arms of strength are made ; 
 
 5T 
 
52 
 
 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint, 
 
 I carry, I spin, I weave, 
 And all my doings I put in print 
 
 On every Saturday eve. 
 
 I've no muscles to weary, no brains to decay. 
 
 No bones to be laid on the shelf, 
 And soon I intend you may go and play. 
 
 While I manage the world myself. 
 But harness me down with your iron bands, 
 
 Be sure of your curb and rein. 
 For I scorn the strength of your puny hands 
 
 As the tempest scorns the chain. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN ON THE WALLS OF OLD 
 
 BLANDFORD CHURCH, PETERSBURG, 
 
 VIRGINIA. 
 
 ELIZA L. HENING. 
 
 Thou art crumbling to the dust, old pile. 
 
 Thou art hastening to thy fall ; 
 And 'round thee in thy loneliness 
 
 Chngs the ivy to thy wall ; 
 The worshippers are scattered now 
 
 Who knelt before thy shrine, 
 And silence reigns where anthems rose 
 
 In days of "Auld Lang Syne." 
 
 And sadly sighs the wandering wind, 
 
 Where oft in years gone by 
 Prayer rose from many hearts to Him, 
 
 The Highest of the High ; 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 53 
 
 The tread of many a noiseless foot 
 
 That sought thy aisles is o'er, 
 And many a weary heart around 
 
 Is still for evermore. 
 
 How doth ambition's hope take wing ! 
 
 How droops the spirit now ! 
 We hear the distant city's din ; 
 
 The dead are mute below. 
 The sun that shone upon their paths 
 
 Now gilds their lonely graves ; 
 The zephyrs which once fanned their brows 
 
 The grass above them waves. 
 
 Oh, could we call the many back 
 
 Who've gathered here in vain, — 
 Who've careless roved where we do now. 
 
 Who'll never meet again ! 
 How would our very hearts be stirred 
 
 To meet the earnest gaze 
 Of the lovely and the beautiful, 
 
 The lights of other days. 
 
 PASSING UNDER THE ROD. 
 
 MRS. MARY S. B. DANA SHINDLER. 
 
 I SAW the young bride, in her beauty and pride, 
 
 Bedecked in her snowy array ; 
 And the bright flush of joy mantled high on her cheek, 
 
 And the future looked blooming and gay : 
 And with woman's devotion she laid her fond heart 
 
 At the shrine of idolatrous love. 
 And she anchor' d her hopes to this perishing earth 
 
 By the chain which her tenderness wove. 
 5* 
 
54 ' SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 But I saw when those heart-strings were bleeding and torn, 
 
 And the chain had been sever' d in two, 
 She had changed her white robes for the sables of grief. 
 
 And her bloom for the paleness of woe ! 
 But the Healer was there, pouring balm on her heart, 
 
 And wiping the tears from her eyes, 
 And He strengthen' d the chain He had broken in twain, 
 
 And fasten' d it firm to the skies ! 
 There had whisper' d a voice — 'twas the voice of her God, 
 " I love thee — I love thee — pass under the rod.'' 
 
 I saw the young mother in tenderness bend 
 
 O'er the couch of her slumbering boy. 
 And she kiss'd the soft lips as they murmur' d her name 
 
 While the dreamer lay smiling in joy. 
 Oh, sweet as a rose-bud encircled with dew. 
 
 When its fragrance is flung on the air, 
 So fresh and so bright to that mother he seem'd 
 
 As he lay in his innocence there. 
 But I saw when she gazed on the same lovely form 
 
 Pale as marble, and silent, and cold, 
 But paler and colder her beautiful boy. 
 
 And the tale of her sorrow was told ! 
 But the Healer was there who had stricken her heart 
 
 And taken her treasure away ; 
 To allure her to Heaven He has placed it on high. 
 
 And the mourner will sweetly obey. 
 There had whisper' d a voice — 'twas the voice of her God, 
 " I love thee — I love thee — pass under the rod F' 
 
 I saw the fond brother, with glances of love. 
 
 Gazing down on a gende young girl. 
 And she hung on his arm, and breath'd soft in his ear, 
 
 As he played with each graceful curl. 
 Oh, he loved the sweet tones of her silvery voice. 
 
 Let her use it in sadness or glee ; 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 55 
 
 And he twined his strong arms round her delicate form 
 
 As she sat in the eve on his knee. 
 But I saw when he gazed on her death-stricken face, 
 
 And she breath' d not a word in his ear ; 
 And he clasped his fond arms round an icy-cold form 
 
 And he moisten' d her cheek with a tear. 
 But the Healer was there, and He said to him thus, 
 
 ' ' Grieve not for thy sister' s short life. 
 And He gave to his arms still another fair girl. 
 
 And he made her his own cherish'd wife ! 
 There had whisper'd a voice — 'twas the voice of his God, 
 " I love thee — I love thee — pass under the rod F' 
 
 I saw too a father and mother who lean' d 
 
 On the arms of a dear gifted son, 
 And the star in the future grew bright to their gaze 
 
 As they saw the proud place he had won ; 
 And the fast-coming evening of hfe promis'd fair, 
 
 And its pathway grew smooth to their feet. 
 And the starlight of love glimmer' d bright at the end. 
 
 And the whispers of fancy were sweet. 
 And I saw them again, bending low o'er the grave 
 
 Where their hearts' dearest hope had been laid, 
 And the star had gone down in the darkness of night, 
 
 And the joy from their bosoms had fled. 
 But the Healer was there, and His arms were around, 
 
 And He led them with tenderest care ; 
 And He showed them a star in the bright upper world, 
 
 'Twas their star shining brilliantly there ! 
 They had each heard a voice — 'twas the voice of their 
 
 God, 
 ' ' I love thee — I love thee — pass under the rod F ' 
 
56 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 THE YOUNG WIDOW. 
 
 ROBERT JOSSELYN. 
 
 She is modest but not bashful, 
 
 Free and easy but not bold, 
 Like an apple, ripe and mellow, 
 
 Not too young and not too old. 
 Half inviting, half repulsing. 
 
 Now advancing, and now shy ; 
 There is mischief in her dimple, — 
 
 There is danger in her eye. 
 
 She has studied human nature, 
 
 She is schooled in all her arts. 
 She has taken her diploma 
 
 As the Mistress of all Hearts. 
 She can tell the very moment 
 
 When to sigh and when to smile, — 
 Oh, a maid is often charming. 
 
 But a widow all the while ! 
 
 Are you sad ? How very serious 
 
 Will her smiling face become ! 
 Are you angry ? She is wretched, 
 
 Drooping, sighing, tearful, dumb. 
 Are you mirthful ? How her laughter. 
 
 Silver-sounding, will ring out ! — 
 She can lure, and catch, and play you, 
 
 As the angler does the trout. 
 
 Ye old bachelors of forty ! 
 
 Who have grown so bald and wise,- 
 Young Americans of twenty ! 
 
 With the love-locks in your eyes, — 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 57 
 
 You may practise all the lessons 
 
 Taught by Cupid S'ince the fall, 
 But I know a little widow 
 
 Who can win and fool you all ! 
 
 'TIS SAID THAT ABSENCE CONQUERS LOVE. 
 
 FREDERICK WILLIAM THOMAS. 
 
 *Tis said that absence conquers love ; 
 
 But, oh, believe it not ! 
 I've tried, alas ! its power to prove. 
 
 But thou art not forgot. 
 Lady, though fate has bid us part, 
 
 Yet still thou art as dear, 
 As fixed in this devoted heart. 
 
 As when I clasped thee here. 
 
 I plunge into the busy crowd, 
 
 And smile to hear thy name ; 
 And yet, as if I thought aloud. 
 
 They know me still the same. 
 And when the wine-cup passes round, 
 
 I toast some other fair ; 
 But when I ask my heart the sound. 
 
 Thy name is echoed there. 
 
 And when some other name I learn, 
 
 And try to whisper love. 
 Still will my heart to thee return. 
 
 Like the returning dove. 
 In vain ! I never can forget, 
 
 And would not be forgot ; 
 For I must bear the same regret, 
 
 Whate'er may be my lot. 
 
58 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 E'en as the wounded bird will seek 
 
 Its favorite bower to die, 
 So, lady, I would hear thee speak, 
 
 And yield my parting sigh. 
 'Tis said that absence conquers love 
 
 But, oh ! believe it not. 
 I've tried, alas ! its power to prove, 
 
 But thou art not forgot. 
 
 BALAKLAVA. 
 
 ALEXANDER BEAUFORT MEEK. 
 I. 
 
 O THE charge at Balaklava ! 
 
 O that rash and fatal charge ! 
 Never was a fiercer, braver. 
 Than that charge at Balaklava, 
 
 On the battle's bloody marge ! 
 All the day the Russian columns. 
 
 Fortress huge, and blazing banks. 
 Poured their dread destructive volumes 
 
 On the French and English ranks, — 
 
 On the gallant allied ranks ! 
 Earth and sky seemed rent asunder 
 By the loud, incessant thunder ! 
 "When a strange but stern command — 
 Needless, heedless, rash command — 
 Came to Lucan's little band, — 
 Scarce six hundred men and horses 
 Of those vast contending forces : — 
 " England's lost unless you save her ! 
 Charge the pass at Balaklava !" 
 
 O that rash and fatal charge. 
 
 On the battle's bloody marge ! 
 Far away the Russian eagles 
 
 Soar o'er smoking hill and dell, 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 59 
 
 And their hordes, Hke howling beagles, 
 
 Dense and countless, 'round them yell ! 
 Thundering cannon, deadly mortar, 
 Sweep the field in every quarter ! 
 Never, since the days of Jesus, 
 Trembled so the Chersonesus ! 
 
 Here behold the Gallic lihes — 
 
 Stout St. Louis' golden lilies — 
 
 Float as erst at old Ramillies ! 
 
 And beside them, lo ! the Lion ! 
 
 With her trophied cross, is flying ! 
 Glorious standards ! — shall they waver 
 On the field of Balaklava ? 
 No, by heavens ! At that command — 
 Sudden, rash, but stern command — 
 Charges Lucan's little band ! 
 
 Brave six hundred ! lo ! they charge, 
 
 On the battle's bloody marge ! 
 
 Down yon deep and skirted valley, 
 Where the crowded cannon play, — 
 
 Where the Czar's fierce cohorts rally, 
 
 Cossack, Calmuck, savage Kalli, — 
 Down the gorge they swept away ! 
 
 Down that new Thermopylae, 
 
 Flashing swords and helmets see ! 
 
 Underneath the iron shower, 
 To the brazen cannon's jaws ! 
 
 Heedless of their deadly power, 
 Press they without fear or pause, — 
 To the very cannon's jaws ! 
 
 Gallant Nolan, brave as Roland 
 At the field of Roncesvalles, 
 Dashes down the fatal valley. 
 
6o SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Dashes on the bolt of death, 
 Shouting with his latest breath, 
 " Charge, then, gallants ! do not waver, 
 Charge the pass at Balaklava!" 
 O that rash and fatal charge, 
 On the battle' s bloody marge ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Now the bolts of volleyed thunder 
 Rend that little band asunder, 
 Steed and rider wildly screaming, 
 
 Screaming wildly, sink away ; 
 Late so proudly, proudly gleaming, 
 Now but lifeless clods of clay, — 
 Now but bleeding clods of clay ! 
 Never, since the days of Jesus, 
 Saw such sight the Chersonesus ! 
 Yet your remnant, brave six hundred, 
 Presses onward, onward, onward. 
 Till they storm the bloody pass, — 
 Till, like brave Leonidas, 
 They storm the deadly pass, 
 Sabring Cossack, Calmuck, Kalli ; 
 In that wild shot-rended valley, — 
 Drenched with fire and blood, like lava, 
 Awful pass at Balaklava ! 
 
 O that rash and fatal charge. 
 On the battle's bloody marge ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 For now Russia's rallied forces, 
 Swarming hordes of Cossack horses, 
 TrampHng o'er the reeking corses, 
 Drive the thinned assailants back, 
 Drive the feeble remnant back, 
 O' er their late heroic track ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 6i 
 
 Vain, alas ! now rent and sundered, 
 Vain your struggles, brave two hundred ! 
 
 Thrice your number lie asleep, 
 
 In that valley dark and deep ; 
 Weak and wounded you retire 
 From that hurricane of fire, — 
 That tempestuous storm of fire, — 
 But no soldiers, firmer, braver. 
 
 Ever trod the field of fame, 
 Than the Knights of Balaklava, — 
 
 Honor to each hero's name ! 
 Yet their country long shall mourn 
 For her ranks so rashly shorn, — 
 Gallantly, but madly shorn 
 
 In that fierce and fatal charge. 
 
 On the battle' s bloody marge. 
 
 THE MOCKING-BIRD. 
 
 ALEXANDER BEAUFORT MEEK. 
 
 From the vale, what music ringing 
 
 Fills the bosom of the night. 
 On the sense, entranced, flinging 
 Spells of witchery and delight ! 
 O'er magnoHa, hme, and cedar. 
 From yon locust-top, it swells 
 Like the chant of serenader 
 Or the chimes of silver bells ! 
 Listen ! dearest, listen to it ! 
 
 Sweeter sounds were never heard ! 
 'Tis the song of that wild poet, — 
 Mime and minstrel, — mocking-bird. 
 6 
 
62 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 See him, swinging in his glory, 
 
 On yon topmost bending limb ! 
 Carolling his amorous story, 
 
 Like some wild crusader's hymn. 
 Now it faints in tones delicious 
 
 As the first low vow of love ! 
 Now it bursts in swells capricious 
 
 All the moonht vale above ! 
 Listen ! dearest, etc. 
 
 Why is't thus, this sylvan Petrarch 
 
 Pours all night his serenade ? 
 'Tis for some proud woodland Laura 
 
 His sad sonnets all are made ! 
 But he changes now his measure, — 
 
 Gladness bubbling from his mouth, — - 
 Jest and gibe, and mimic pleasure. 
 
 Winged Anacreon of the South ! 
 Listen ! dearest, etc. 
 
 Bird of music, wit, and gladness. 
 
 Troubadour of sunny climes, 
 Disenchanter of all sadness, — 
 
 Would thine art were in my rhymes ! 
 O'er the heart that's beating by me 
 
 I would weave a spell divine ; 
 Is there aught she could deny me 
 
 Drinking in such strains as thine ? 
 Listen ! dearest, etc. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 63 
 
 FLORENCE VANE. 
 
 PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE. 
 
 I HAVE loved thee long and dearly, 
 
 Florence Vane ; 
 My life' s bright dream and early 
 
 Hath come again ; 
 I renew in my fond vision, 
 
 My heart's dear pain. 
 My hope, and thy derision, 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 The ruin lone and hoary. 
 
 The ruin old, 
 Where thou didst mark my story. 
 
 At even told, — 
 That spot — the hues Elysian 
 
 Of sky and plain — 
 I treasure in my vision, 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 Thou wast lovelier than the roses 
 
 In their prime ; 
 Thy voice excelled the closes 
 
 Of sweetest rhyme ; 
 Thy heart was as a river 
 
 Without a main. 
 Would I had loved thee never, 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 But fairest, coldest wonder ! 
 
 Thy glorious clay 
 Lieth the green sod under, — 
 
 Alas the day ! 
 
64 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 And it boots not to remember 
 
 Thy disdain, 
 To quicken love's pale ember, 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 The liHes of the valley 
 
 By young graves weep, 
 The pansies love to dally 
 
 Where maidens sleep. 
 May their bloom, in beauty vying, 
 
 Never wane 
 Where thine earthly part is lying, 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 I HAVE SEEN THIS PLACE BEFORE. 
 
 CATHERINE ANNE WARFIELD. 
 
 I HAVE seen this place before, — 
 
 'Tis a strange, mysterious truth ; 
 Yet my foot hath never pressed this shore. 
 
 In childhood or in youth ; 
 I know these ruins gray, 
 
 I know these cloisters dim, — 
 My soul hath been in these walls away 
 
 When slumber chains each hmb. 
 
 In a dream, a midnight dream, 
 
 I have stood upon this heath. 
 With this blue and winding stream, 
 
 And the lonely vale beneath ; 
 The same dark sky was there. 
 
 With its bleak shade on my brow. 
 The same deep feeling of despair 
 
 That clings about me now. 
 
SOATGS OF THE SOUTH. 65 
 
 Friend, 'tis a fearful spell 
 
 That binds these ruins gray ; 
 Why came my spirit here to dwell 
 
 When my frame was far away ? 
 Can the wild and soaring soul 
 
 Go out on its eagle sweep, 
 And traverse earth without control, 
 
 While the frame is wrapt in sleep ? 
 
 Hath memory caught a gleam 
 
 From a hfe whose term is o'er, 
 And borne it back in that mystic dream, — 
 
 Say, have I lived before ? 
 Or was prophetic power 
 
 To that midnight vision lent ? 
 Is my fate bound up in this ruined tower ? 
 
 Speak ! thou art eloquent. 
 
 THE WIFE. 
 
 ANNA PEYRE DINNIES. 
 
 I COULD have stemmed misfortune's tide. 
 
 And borne the rich one's sneer, 
 Have braved the haughty glance of pride, 
 
 Nor shed a single tear ; 
 I could have smiled on every blow 
 
 From life's full quiver thrown, 
 While I might gaze on thee, and know 
 
 I should not be "alone." 
 
 I could — I think I could have brooked, 
 
 E'en for a time, that thou 
 Upon my fading face hadst looked 
 
 With less of love than now ; 
 
 e 6* 
 
66 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 For then I should at least have felt 
 The sweet hope still my own 
 
 To win thee back, and, whilst I dwelt 
 On earth, not been "alone." 
 
 But thus to see from day to day 
 
 Thy brightening eye and cheek, 
 And watch thy hfe-sands waste away, 
 
 Unnumbered, slow, and meek ; 
 To meet thy smiles of tenderness, 
 
 And catch the feeble tone 
 Of kindness, ever breathed to bless, 
 
 And feel I'll be " alone ;" 
 
 To mark thy strength each hour decay, 
 
 And yet thy hopes grow stronger, 
 As filled with heavenward trust, they say. 
 
 Earth may not claim thee longer. 
 Nay, dearest, 'tis too much, — this heart 
 
 Must break when thou art gone ; 
 It must not be ; we may not part ; 
 
 I could not live ' ' alone. ' ' 
 
 UNDER THE VIOLETS. 
 
 EDWARD YOUNG. 
 
 Under the violets, blue and sweet. 
 
 Where low the willow droops and weeps, 
 
 Where children tread with timid feet. 
 When twilight o'er the forest creeps. 
 She sleeps, — my Httle darling sleeps. 
 
 Breathe low and soft, O wind ! breathe low 
 
 Where so much loveliness is laid ! 
 Pour out thy heart in strains of woe. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 67 
 
 O bird ! that in the willows' shade 
 Sing' St till the stars do pale and fade. 
 
 It may be that to other eyes, 
 As in the happy days of old, 
 
 The sun doth every morning rise 
 
 O'er mountain summits tipped with gold, 
 And set where sapphire seas are rolled ; 
 
 But I am so hedged round with woe, 
 This glory I no more can see. 
 
 weary heart, that throbbest so, 
 Thou hast but this one wish, — to be 
 A little dust beneath the tree. 
 
 1 would thou hadst thy wish to-day, 
 
 And we were lying side by side 
 With her who took our life away 
 That heavy day whereon she died, 
 O grave ! I would thy gates were wide. 
 
 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 AMELIA B. WELBY. 
 
 I SOMETIMES have thoughts, in my loneliest hours, 
 That lie on my heart like dew on the flowers, 
 Of a ramble I took one bright afternoon 
 When my heart was as light as a blossom in June ; 
 The green earth was moist with the late fallen showers. 
 The breeze fluttered down and blew open the flowers, 
 While a single white cloud, to its haven of rest 
 On the white wing of peace, floated off in the west. 
 
68 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 As I threw back my tresses to catch the cool breeze, 
 That scattered the rain-drops and dimpled the seas, 
 Far up the blue sky a fair rainbow unrolled 
 Its soft-tinted pinions of purple and gold. 
 'Twas born in a moment, yet, quick as its birth. 
 It had stretched to the uttermost ends of the earth, 
 And, fair as an angel, it floated as free. 
 With a wing on the earth and a wing on the sea. 
 
 How calm was the ocean ! how gentle its swell ! 
 
 Like a woman's soft bosom it rose and it fell ; 
 
 While its light, sparkling waves, stealing laughingly o'er. 
 
 When they saw the fair rainbow, knelt down on the shore. 
 
 No sweet hymn ascended, no murmur of prayer, 
 
 Yet I felt that the spirit of worship was there, 
 
 And bent my young head, in devotion and love, 
 
 'Neath the form of the angel, that floated above. 
 
 How wide was the sweep of its beautiful wings ! 
 How boundless its circle ! how radiant its rings ! 
 If I looked on the sky, 'twas suspended in air ; 
 If I looked on the ocean, the rainbow was there ; 
 Thus forming a girdle, as brilliant and whole 
 As the thoughts of the rainbow, that circled my soul. 
 Like the wing of the Deity, calmly unfurled. 
 It bent from the cloud and encircled the world. 
 
 There are moments, I think, when the spirit receives 
 Whole volumes of thought on its unwritten leaves, 
 When the folds of the heart in a moment unclose 
 Like the innermost leaves from the heart of a rose. 
 And thus, when the rainbow had passed from the sky, 
 The thoughts it awoke were too deep to pass by ; 
 It left my full soul, like the wing of a dove. 
 All fluttering with pleasure, and fluttering with love. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 69 
 
 I know that each moment of rapture or pain 
 But shortens the Hnks in hfe's mystical chain ; 
 I know that my form, hke that bow from the wave, 
 Must pass from the earth, and he cold in the grave ; 
 Yet oh ! when death's shadows my bosom encloud. 
 When I shrink at the thought of the coffin and shroud, 
 May Hope, hke the rainbow, my spirit enfold 
 In her beautiful pinions of purple and gold. 
 
 FROM "MUSINGS." 
 
 AMELIA B. WELBY. 
 
 The twilight hours, like birds, flew by. 
 
 As lightly and as free ; 
 Ten thousand stars were in the sky. 
 
 Ten thousand in the sea : 
 For every wave, with dimpled face. 
 
 That leaped into the air, 
 Had caught a star in its embrace 
 
 And held it trembling there. 
 
 ON SEEING AN INFANT SLEEPING UPON ITS 
 MOTHER'S BOSOM. 
 
 AMELIA B. WELBY. 
 
 It lay upon its mother's breast, a thing 
 
 Bright as a dew-drop when it first descends. 
 Or as the plumage of an angel's wing 
 
 Where every tint of rainbow-beauty blends ; 
 It had soft violet eyes, that, 'neath each lid 
 
 Half closed upon them, like bright waters shone. 
 While its small dimpled hands were slyly hid 
 
 In the warm bosom that it nestled on. 
 
70 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 There was a beam in that young mother' s eye, 
 
 Lit by the feeUngs that she could not speak, 
 As from her hps a plaintive lullaby 
 
 Stirred the bright tresses on her infant' s cheek, 
 While now and then with melting heart she press'd 
 
 Soft kisses o'er its red and smiling lips, — 
 Lips, sweet as rose-buds in fresh beauty dress' d 
 
 Ere the young murmuring bee their honey sips. 
 
 It was a fragrant eve ; the sky was full 
 
 Of burning stars, that tremulously clear 
 Shone on those lovely ones, while the low lull 
 
 Of falling waters fell upon the ear ; 
 And the new moon, like a pure shell of pearl 
 
 Encircled by the blue waves of the deep. 
 Lay 'mid the fleecy clouds that love to curl 
 
 Around the stars when they their vigils keep. 
 
 My heart grew softer as I gazed upon 
 
 That youthful mother as she soothed to rest 
 With a low song her loved and cherished one, — 
 
 The bud of promise on her gentle breast ; 
 For 'tis a sight that angel ones above 
 
 May stoop to gaze on from their bowers of bliss, 
 When Innocence upon the breast of Love 
 
 Is cradled, in a sinful world like this. 
 
 THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 
 
 THEODORE O'HARA. 
 
 The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 
 
 The soldier's last tattoo ; 
 No more on life's parade shall meet 
 
 The brave and daring few : 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 71 
 
 On Fame's eternal camping-ground 
 
 Their silent tents are spread, 
 And glory guards with hallowed round 
 
 The bivouac of the dead. 
 
 No rumor of the foe's advance 
 
 Now swells upon the wind ; 
 No troubled thought at midnight haunts 
 
 Of loved ones left behind ; 
 No vision of the morrow's strife 
 
 The warrior's dream alarms ; 
 No braying horn nor screaming fife 
 
 At dawn shall call to arms. 
 
 Their shivered swords are red with rust ; 
 
 Their plumed heads are bowed ; 
 Their haughty banner trailed in dust 
 
 Is now their martial shroud : 
 And plenteous funeral tears have washed 
 
 The red stains from each brow, 
 And their proud forms, in battle gashed, 
 
 Are free from anguish now. 
 
 The neighing steed, the flashing blade. 
 
 The trumpet's stirring blast. 
 The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 
 
 The din and shout are past ; 
 No war's wild note, nor glory's peal, 
 
 Shall thrill with fierce delight 
 Those breasts that nevermore shall feel 
 
 The rapture of the fight. 
 
 Like the fierce northern hurricane 
 
 That sweeps the broad plateau. 
 Flushed with the triumph yet to gain. 
 
 Came down the serried foe : 
 
72 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Who heard the thunder of the fray 
 Break o'er the field beneath, 
 
 Knew well the watchword of that day 
 Was, victory or death. 
 
 Long had the doubtful conflict raged 
 
 O'er all that stricken plain, 
 For never fiercer fight had waged 
 
 The vengeful blood of Spain ; 
 And still the storm of battle blew, 
 
 Still swelled the gory tide ; 
 Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 
 
 Such odds his strength could bide. 
 
 'Twas in that hour his stern command 
 
 Called to a martyr's grave 
 The flower of his beloved band 
 
 The nation's flag to save. 
 By rivers of their fathers' gore 
 
 His first-born laurels grew, 
 And well he deemed the sons would pour 
 
 Their lives for glory, too. 
 
 Full many a norther's breath has swept 
 
 O'er Angostura's plain, 
 And long the pitying sky has wept 
 
 Above its mouldered slain ; 
 The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, 
 
 Or shepherd's pensive lay. 
 Alone awakes each sullen height 
 
 That frowned o'er that dread fray. 
 
 Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 
 Ye must not slumber there. 
 
 Where stranger steps and tongues resound 
 Along the heedless air ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Your own proud land's heroic soil 
 
 Shall be your fitter grave ; 
 She claims from war his richest spoil, — 
 
 The ashes of her brave. 
 
 Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 
 
 Far from the gory field ; 
 Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 
 
 On many a bloody shield ; 
 The sunlight of their native sky 
 
 Shines sadly on them here. 
 And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 
 
 The heroes' sepulchre. 
 
 Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead i 
 
 Dear as the blood ye gave ; 
 No impious footstep here shall tread 
 
 The herbage of your grave ! 
 Nor shall your glory be forgot 
 
 While fame her record keeps. 
 Or honor points the hallowed spot 
 
 Where valor proudly sleeps. 
 
 Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 
 
 In deathless song shall tell. 
 When many a vanished age hath flown, 
 
 The story how ye fell ; 
 Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 
 
 Nor time's remorseless doom. 
 Shall dim one ray of holy light 
 
 That gilds your glorious tomb. 
 
 73 
 
74 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 THE RED OLD HILLS OF GEORGIA. 
 
 HENRY R. JACKSON. 
 
 The red old hills of Georgia ! 
 
 So bold and bare and bleak, 
 Their memory fills my spirit 
 
 With thoughts I cannot speak. 
 They have no robe of verdure, 
 
 Stript naked to the blast ; 
 And yet of all the varied earth 
 
 I love them best at last. 
 
 The red old hills of Georgia ! 
 
 My heart is on them now ; 
 Where, fed from golden streamlets, 
 
 Oconee's waters flow ! 
 I love them with devotion. 
 
 Though washed so bleak and bare ; — 
 How can my spirit e'er forget 
 
 The warm hearts dwelling there ? 
 
 I love them for the living, — 
 
 The generous, kind, and gay ; 
 And for the dead who slumber 
 
 Within their breast of clay. 
 I love them for the bounty 
 
 Which cheers the social hearth ; 
 I love them for their rosy girls, 
 
 The fairest on the earth. 
 
 The red old hills of Georgia ! 
 
 Where, where, upon the face 
 Of earth is freedom' s spirit 
 
 More bright in any race ? — 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 75 
 
 In Switzerland and Scotland 
 
 Each patriot breast it fills, 
 But sure it blazes brighter yet 
 
 Among our Georgia hills ! 
 
 And where, upon their surface. 
 
 Is heart to feeling dead ? — 
 And when has needy stranger 
 
 Gone from those hills unfed ? 
 There bravery and kindness 
 
 For aye go hand in hand, 
 Upon your washed and naked hills, 
 
 " My own, my native land !" 
 
 The red old hills of Georgia ! 
 
 I never can forget ; 
 Amid life's joys and sorrows. 
 
 My heart is on them yet ; — 
 And when my course is ended. 
 
 When life her web has wove, 
 Oh ! may I then, beneath those hills, 
 
 Lie close to them I love ! 
 
 MY WIFE AND CHILD. 
 
 HENRY R. JACKSON. 
 
 The tattoo beats, the lights are gone, 
 The camp around in slumber Hes, 
 
 The night with solemn pace moves on, 
 The shadows thicken o'er the skies ; 
 
 But sleep my weary eyes hath flown. 
 And sad, uneasy thoughts arise. 
 
76 SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 I think of thee, oh, darhng one, 
 
 Whose love my early life hath blest, — 
 
 Of thee and him — our baby son — 
 Who slumbers on thy gentle breast. 
 
 God of the tender, frail, and lone, 
 Oh, guard the tender sleeper's rest ! 
 
 And hover gently, hover near 
 
 To her whose watchful eye is wet, — 
 
 To mother, wife — the doubly dear. 
 
 In whose young heart have freshly met 
 
 Two streams of love so deep and clear. 
 And cheer her drooping spirits yet. 
 
 Now while she kneels before thy throne, 
 Oh, teach her, Ruler of the skies, 
 
 That, while by thy behest alone 
 
 Earth's mightiest powers fall or rise, 
 
 No tear is wept to Thee unknown, 
 No hair is lost, no sparrow dies ! 
 
 That Thou canst stay the ruthless hand 
 Of dark disease, and soothe its pain ; 
 
 That only by Thy stern command 
 The battle's lost, the soldier's slain ; 
 
 That from the distant sea or land 
 
 Thou bring' st the wanderer home again. 
 
 And when upon her pillow lone 
 
 Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed, 
 
 May happier visions beam upon 
 
 The brightening current of her breast, 
 
 No frowning look or angry tone 
 Disturb the Sabbath of her rest ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 77 
 
 Whatever fate these forms may show 
 Loved with a passion almost wild, 
 
 By day, by night, in joy or woe, 
 
 By fears oppressed or hopes beguiled, 
 
 From every danger, every foe. 
 
 Oh, God, protect my wife and child ! 
 
 THE LONG AGO. 
 
 PHILO HENDERSON. 
 
 Oh ! a wonderful stream is the river of Time, 
 
 As it runs through the realm of tears. 
 With a faultless rhythm, and musical rhyme, 
 And a broader sweep, and a surge sublime, 
 And blends with the ocean of years ! 
 
 How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow. 
 
 And summers like buds between. 
 And the ears in the sheaf, — so they come and they go 
 On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow, 
 
 As it glides in the shadow and sheen ! 
 
 There's a magical Isle in the river of Time 
 
 Where the softest of airs are playing ; 
 There's a cloudless sky, and a tropical cHme, 
 And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, 
 And the Junes with the roses are staying. 
 
 And the name of this Isle is the Long Ago, 
 
 And we bury our treasures there, — 
 There are brows of beauty, and bosoms of snow, 
 There are heaps of dust, — but we loved them so ! 
 
 There are trinkets, and tresses of hair. 
 7* 
 
78 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 There are fragments of song that nobody sings, 
 
 And a part of an infant' s prayer ; 
 There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings, 
 There are broken vows and pieces of rings, 
 
 And the garments she used to wear. 
 
 There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore 
 
 By the mirage is hfted in air, 
 And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, 
 Sweet voices heard in the days gone before. 
 
 When the wind down the river is fair. 
 
 Oh ! remembered for aye be that blessed Isle, . 
 
 All the day of life till the night ; 
 When the evening comes with its beautiful smile. 
 And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile, 
 
 May that ' ' Greenwood' ' of soul be in sight ! 
 
 THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 FRANK O. TICKNOR, M.D. 
 
 The knightliest of the knightly race 
 
 That, since the days of old. 
 Have kept the lamp of chivalry 
 
 Alight in hearts of gold ; 
 The kindliest of the kindly band 
 
 That, rarely hating ease, 
 Yet rode with Spotswood round the land. 
 
 And Raleigh round the seas ; 
 
 Who climbed the blue Virginian hills 
 
 Against embattled foes, 
 And planted there, in valleys fair. 
 
 The lily and the rose ; 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 79 
 
 Whose fragrance lives in many lands, 
 
 Whose beauty stars the earth, 
 And lights the hearths of happy homes 
 
 With loveliness and worth. 
 
 We thought they slept ! — the sons who kept 
 
 The names of noble sires. 
 And slumbered while the darkness crept 
 
 Around their vigil-fires ; 
 But, aye, the "Golden Horseshoe" knights 
 
 Their Old Dominion keep, 
 Whose foes have found enchanted ground, 
 
 But not a knight asleep ! 
 
 LITTLE GIFFEN. 
 
 FRANK O. TICKNOR, M.D. 
 
 Out of the focal and foremost fire. 
 Out of the hospital walls as dire ; 
 Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene 
 (Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen !), 
 Spectre ! such as you seldom see. 
 Little Giffen, of Tennessee ! 
 
 "Take him and welcome !" the surgeons said 
 Little the doctor can help the dead ! 
 So we took him and brought him where 
 The balm was sweet in the summer air ; 
 And laid him down on a wholesome bed, — 
 Utter Lazarus, heel to head ! 
 
 And we watched the war with 'bated breath, — 
 Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death. 
 Months of torture, how many such ? 
 Weary weeks of the stick and crutch ; 
 
SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 And still a glint of the steel-blue eye 
 Told of a spirit that wouldn't die, 
 
 And didn't. Nay, more ! in death's despite 
 The crippled skeleton learned to write. 
 Dear mother, at first, of course ; and then 
 Dear captain, inquiring about the men. 
 Captain's answer : "Of eighty-and-five, 
 Giffen and I are left alive. ' ' 
 
 Word of gloom from the war, one day ; 
 
 Johnson pressed at the front, they say. 
 
 Little Giffen was up and away ; 
 
 A tear — his first — as he bade good-by, 
 
 Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye. 
 
 " I'll write, if spared !' ' There was news of the fight 
 
 But none of Giffen. — He did not write. 
 
 I sometimes fancy that, were I king 
 
 Of the princely Knights of the Golden Ring, 
 
 With the song of the minstrel in mine ear, 
 
 And the tender legend that trembles here, 
 
 I'd give the best on his bended knee, 
 
 The whitest soul of my chivalry. 
 
 For "Little Giffen," of Tennessee. 
 
 MUSIC IN CAMP. 
 
 JOHN R. THOMPSON. 
 
 Two armies covered hill and plain, 
 Where Rappahannock's waters 
 
 Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain 
 Of battle's recent slaughters. 
 
SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 8 1 
 
 The summer clouds lay pitched like tents 
 
 In meads of heavenly azure ; 
 And each dread gun of the elements 
 
 Slept in its high embrasure. 
 
 The breeze so softly blew, it made 
 
 No forest leaf to quiver, 
 And the smoke of the random cannonade 
 
 Rolled slowly from the river. 
 
 And now where circling hills looked down 
 
 With cannon grimly planted, 
 O'er listless camp and silent town 
 
 The golden sunset slanted ; 
 
 When on the fervid air there came 
 
 A strain, now rich, now tender ; 
 The music seemed itself aflame 
 
 With day's departing splendor. 
 
 A Federal band, which eve and morn 
 
 Played measures brave and nimble. 
 Had just struck up with flute and horn 
 
 And lively clash of cymbal. 
 
 Down flocked the soldiers to the banks, 
 
 Till, margined by its pebbles. 
 One wooded shore was blue with " Yanks," 
 
 And one was gray with " Rebels." 
 
 Then all was still ; and then the band 
 
 With movement light and tricksy 
 Made stream and forest, hill and strand, 
 
 Reverberate with "Dixie." 
 
 The conscious stream, with burnished glow, 
 
 Went proudly o'er its pebbles. 
 But thrilled throughout its deepest flow 
 
 With yelling of the Rebels. 
 / 
 
82 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Again a pause, and then again 
 
 The trumpet pealed sonorous, 
 And " Yankee Doodle" was the strain 
 
 To which the shore gave chorus. 
 
 The laughing ripple shoreward flew 
 To kiss the shining pebbles, — 
 
 Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue 
 Defiance to the Rebels. 
 
 And yet once more the bugle sang 
 
 Above the stormy riot ; 
 No shout upon the evening rang, — 
 
 There reigned a holy quiet. 
 
 The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood 
 Poured o'er the glistening pebbles : 
 
 All silent now the Yankees stood, 
 All silent stood the Rebels : 
 
 No unresponsive soul had heard 
 That plaintive note's appealing, 
 
 So deeply " Home, Sweet Home" had stirred 
 The hidden founts of feehng. 
 
 Or blue or gray, the soldier sees, 
 
 As by the wand of fairy. 
 The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees, 
 
 The cabin by the prairie. 
 
 Or cold or warm, his native skies 
 
 Bend in their beauty o'er him, 
 Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes 
 
 His loved ones stand before him. 
 
 As fades the iris after rain 
 
 In April's tearful weather, 
 The vision vanished as the strain 
 
 And daylight died together. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. S>t, 
 
 But memory, waked by music's art, 
 
 Expressed in simplest numbers. 
 Subdued -the sternest Yankee's heart, — 
 
 Made light the Rebel's slumbers. 
 
 And fair the form of Music shines. 
 
 That bright celestial creature. 
 Who still 'mid war's embattled lines 
 
 Gave this one touch of nature. 
 
 CARCASSONNE. 
 
 JOHN R. THOMPSON. 
 (From the French of Gustav Nadaud.) 
 
 "I'm growing old. I've sixty years ; 
 
 I've labored all my life in vain : 
 In all that time of hopes and fears 
 
 I've failed my dearest wish to gain. 
 I see full well that here below 
 
 BHss unalloyed there is for none. 
 My prayer will ne'er fulfilment know, — 
 
 I never have seen Carcassonne. 
 
 I never have seen Carcassonne ! 
 
 " You see the city from the hill. 
 
 It lies beyond the mountains blue, 
 And yet to reach it one must still 
 
 Five long and weary leagues pursue. 
 And to return, as many more ! 
 
 Ah ! had the vintage plenteous grown 
 The grape withheld its yellow store : — 
 
 I shall not look on Carcassonne. 
 
 I shall not look on Carcassonne ! 
 
84 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 ' ' They tell me every day is there 
 
 Not more nor less than Sunday gay 
 In shining robes and garments fair 
 
 The people walk upon their way. 
 One gazes there on castle walls 
 
 As grand as those of Babylon, — 
 A bishop and two generals ! 
 
 I do not know fair Carcassonne. 
 
 I do not know fair Carcassonne ! 
 
 " The vicar's right : he says that we 
 
 Are ever wayward, weak, and blind ; 
 He tells us in his homily 
 
 Ambition ruins all mankind ; 
 Yet could I there two days have spent, 
 
 While still the autumn sweetly shone. 
 Ah, me ! I might have died content 
 
 When I had looked on Carcassonne. 
 
 When I had looked on Carcassonne ! 
 
 "Thy pardon, Father, I beseech, 
 
 In this my prayer, if I offend ; 
 One something sees beyond his reach 
 
 From childhood to his journey's end. 
 My wife, our little boy Aignan, 
 
 Have travelled even to Narbonne ; 
 My grandchild has seen Perpignan, 
 
 And I have not seen Carcassonne. 
 
 And I have not seen Carcassonne !" 
 
 So crooned, one day, close by Limoux, 
 A peasant, double-bent with age. 
 
 " Rise up, my friend," said I ; " with you 
 I'll go upon this pilgrimage." 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 85 
 
 We left next morning his abode, 
 
 But (Heaven forgive him !) half-way on, 
 
 The old man died upon the road : 
 
 He never gazed on Carcassonne. 
 
 Each mortal has his Carcassonne ! 
 
 PATRIOTISM. 
 
 JOHN R. THOMPSON. 
 
 Whoe'er has stood upon the Rigi's height 
 And watched the sunset fading into night, 
 While every moment some new star was born 
 From the bold Eijar to the Wetterhorn, 
 Has seen, as steadily the airy tide 
 Of darkness deepened up the mountain-side, 
 The glowing summits, slowly, one by one. 
 Lose the soft crimson splendor of the sun 
 (Like altar hghts in some cathedral dim 
 Extinguished singly with the dying hymn) 
 Till the last flush would lovingly repose 
 Upon the Jungfrau's purple waste of snows. 
 Thus, O my country ! when primeval gloom 
 Shall over earth its ancient reign resume ; 
 When Night Eternal shall its march begin 
 O'er the round world and all that is therein ; 
 As dark Oblivion's rising waves absorb 
 All human trophies, thus shall Glory's orb 
 Thy lone sublimity the latest see 
 And pour its parting radiance on thee ! 
 
86 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 TALLULAH. 
 
 J. M. LEGARE. 
 
 Recollect thou, in thunder, 
 How Tallulah spoke to thee, 
 When, thy httle face with wonder 
 Lifted upward, rocks asunder 
 
 Riven, shattered, 
 
 Black and battered, 
 Thou aloft didst see ? 
 
 Downward stalking through Tempesta 
 Did a giant shape appear. 
 All the waters leaping after, 
 Hound-like with their thunder-laughter 
 
 Shook the valley 
 
 Teocalli, 
 Hill- top bleak and bare. 
 
 Vast and ponderous, of granite, 
 Cloud-enwrapt his features were. 
 In his great calm eyes emotion 
 Glimmered none ; and like an ocean 
 
 Billowy, tangled, 
 
 Foam bespangled. 
 Backward streamed his hair. 
 
 On his brow hke dandelions 
 Nodded pines : the soHd floor 
 Rocked and reeled beneath his treading. 
 Black on high a tempest spreading, 
 
 Pregnant, passive. 
 
 As with massive 
 Portal, closed the corridor. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 87 
 
 Frighted, sobbing, clinging to me 
 In an agony of dread, 
 Sawest thou this form tremendous 
 Striding down the steep stupendous 
 
 With the torrent : 
 
 Night abhorrent 
 Closing overhead. 
 
 Then my heart dissembling courage, 
 That thine own so loudly beat, 
 Comfort thee, I said, poor trembler : 
 Providence is no dissembler. 
 
 Higher power 
 
 Guards each flower 
 Blooming at thy feet. 
 
 Flushed and tearful from my bosom 
 Thereat thou didst lift thy face. 
 Blue and wide thy eyes resplendent 
 Turned upon the phantom pendent. 
 
 Whose huge shadow 
 
 Overshadowed 
 All the gloomy place. 
 
 Back revolving into granite, 
 Foam and fall and nodding pine, 
 Sank the phantom. Slantwise driven 
 Through the storm-cloud rent and riven, 
 
 Sunshine glittered, 
 
 And there twittered 
 Birds in every vine. 
 
 Then sonorous from the chasm 
 Pealed a voice distinct and loud : 
 
88 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 " Innocence and God-reliance 
 Set all evil at defiance. 
 Maiden, by these 
 (As by snow, trees) 
 Evil heads are bowed. ' ' 
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 
 
 W. C. RICHARDSON. 
 
 (From " Caspar.") 
 
 Gazing far down the vista of the past, 
 
 I view a rude house by a lofty hill ; 
 'Tis many lustres since I saw it last. 
 
 But all its busy scenes are present still : 
 The hill I spake of seemed to me so vast. 
 
 It soared in awful majesty, until 
 Its summit pierced the clouds ; then mounting high 
 Made boldly for the clearer, upper sky. 
 
 In Winter, 'round its venerable head 
 It wrapped a mantle of the purest snow, 
 
 From which I darted on my rustic sled, 
 
 Like thundering lauwine to the vale below, — 
 
 Swift as an arrow from a cross-bow sped, 
 
 To mount again, with weary steps and slow ; 
 
 But felt, with all my toils, as keen a pleasure 
 
 As misers when they hug their hoarded treasure. 
 
 In Summer, 'round its ancient, shaggy brows 
 
 An emerald fillet ran, divinely fair, 
 Where you might see the milk-white cattle browse, 
 
 So high they seemed suspended in the air ; 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 8( 
 
 Too steep for villa, country-seat, or house, 
 
 I oft repaired in boyish rapture there 
 To cull the crocus, and the orchis flowers, 
 To deck my youthful sweetheart's sylvan bowers. 
 
 Yes, sweetheart ! for I had my boyish loves, — 
 
 What school-boy has not ? — and they were as deep, 
 
 Sincere, and constant as the god that moves 
 Our stern hearts later, when the passions sleep. 
 
 'Tis pity that our young affection proves 
 
 So fleeting ! We can see no more such groves. 
 
 Such nymphs, such bowers, such happy moments, when 
 
 We learn to vote, and write ourselves as men. 
 
 Who would not be a careless boy once more. 
 
 With uncombed locks, torn hat, and flashing eye ; 
 
 To chase the butterflies and curlews o'er 
 
 The blossomed heath, and never know a sigh, 
 
 Or care ? Methinks the meretricious store 
 Of manhood's joys in flavor cannot vie. 
 
 No, they're insipid, dull, compared with this, 
 
 Our boyhood's innocent and headlong bliss. 
 
 The trees are greener then ; the sky more near ; 
 
 The flowers more sweet ; the landscape far more gay ; 
 The rills make softer music to the ear. 
 
 And scantier clouds obscure the face of day : 
 The rainbow, that so sweetly spans the sphere. 
 
 Will shed its hues ; the sun withdraw its ray. 
 That made earth lovely, while our hearts wax cold, — 
 I would to Heaven we never could grow old. 
 
 Ay, old, old, old ! that sounds so like a knell, 
 I half regret it slipped from off my pen : 
 
 It makes me sad to hear my children tell 
 
 Me I am old, and pluck my beard ; but when 
 8* 
 
90 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 I chide, they laugh, and all again is well, 
 
 For they remind me that I live again 
 In their young lives ; they cheat me of my years, 
 And all the clouds of age dissolve in tears. 
 
 In copious, gushing tears of joy to feel 
 
 That though the God that dwells in yonder skies 
 
 Contracts my span of life, I still can steal 
 Some moments from the heaviness that tries 
 
 The aged reins : the drifting racks reveal 
 Some glimpses of the vault to my dim eyes, 
 
 That shook its starlight o'er my boyish head 
 
 Ere all the romance of my heart was shed. 
 
 SEA-WEEDS. 
 
 ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM. 
 
 Friend of the thoughtful mind and gentle heart, 
 
 Beneath the citron-tree — 
 Deep calling to my soul's profounder deep — 
 
 I hear the Mexique Sea, 
 
 White through the night rides in the spectral surf 
 
 Along the spectral sands, 
 And all the air vibrates, as if from harps 
 
 Touched by phantasmal hands. 
 
 Bright in the moon the red pomegranate-flowers 
 
 Lean to the yucca's bells. 
 While with her chrism of dew sad midnight fills 
 
 The milk-white asphodels. 
 
 Watching all night — as I have done before — 
 
 I count the stars that set. 
 Each writing on my soul some memory deep 
 
 Of pleasure or regret ; 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 91 
 
 Till, wild with heartbreak, toward the east I turn, 
 
 Waiting for dawn of day ; 
 And chanting sea, and asphodel, and star, 
 
 Are faded, all, away. 
 
 Only within my trembling, trembling hands — 
 
 Brought unto me by thee — 
 I clasp these beautiful and fragile things. 
 
 Bright sea-weeds from the sea. 
 
 Fair bloom the flowers beneath these northern skies, 
 
 Pure shine the stars by night. 
 And grandly sing the grand Atlantic waves 
 
 In thunder-throated might ; 
 
 Yet, as the sea-shell in her chambers keeps 
 
 The murmur of the sea. 
 So the deep echoing memories of my home 
 
 Will not depart from me. 
 
 Prone on the page they lie, these gentle things, 
 
 As I have seen them cast 
 Like a drowned woman's hair along the sands 
 
 When storms were overpast ; 
 
 Prone, like mine own affections, cast ashore 
 
 In battle's storm and blight. 
 Would they could die, like sea-weed ! Bear with me, 
 
 But I must weep to-night. 
 
 THE PICTURE. 
 
 WILLIAM H. HOLCOMBE. 
 
 I SAW a lovely picture 
 
 In a gallery of art, 
 Which charmed me like an April rose, 
 
 And I wear it in my heart ; 
 
92 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Not like the rose of gardens, 
 Which withers soon away, 
 
 But planted in my heart of hearts, 
 It never shall decay. 
 
 It was a blooming maiden, 
 
 So beautiful and pure, 
 'Twas mirrored from an angel's face 
 
 In visions, I am sure. 
 A dove of heavenly plumage 
 
 Upon her bosom lay ; 
 I saw the spirit of the dove 
 
 Around her lips at play. 
 
 I longed to see the painter, 
 
 I longed to grasp his hand, — 
 I know there is a common ground 
 
 Whereon we two could stand. 
 I know he has been happy, 
 
 And his heart is full of love. 
 Or he never could have imaged forth 
 
 That maiden and her dove. 
 
 For as the dove resembles 
 
 The virgin's spotless thought, 
 So is this picture like the soul 
 
 From which it was outwrought ; 
 And of that glorious spirit 
 
 I catch a radiant part, 
 Which I have called a rose, and plant 
 
 Forever in my heart. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 93 
 
 ANGEL WATCHERS. 
 
 ROSE VERTNER JEFFREY. 
 
 Angel faces watch my pillow, angel voices haunt my 
 
 sleep, 
 And upon the winds of midnight shining pinions round 
 
 me sweep ; 
 Floating downward on the starlight two bright infant forms 
 
 I see, 
 They are mine, my own bright darlings, come from 
 
 Heaven to visit me. 
 
 Earthly children smile upon me, but those little ones 
 
 above 
 Were the first to stir the fountains of a mother's deathless 
 
 love ; 
 And, as now they watch my slumber, while their soft eyes 
 
 on me shine, 
 God forgive a mortal yearning still to call His angels mine. 
 
 Earthly children fondly call me, but no mortal voice can 
 
 seem 
 Sweet as those that whisper "Mother!" 'mid the glories 
 
 of my dream : 
 Years will pass, and earthly prattlers cease perchance to 
 
 lisp my name. 
 But my angel babies' accents shall be evermore the same. 
 
 And the bright band now around me from their home per- 
 chance will rove, 
 
 In their strength no more depending on my constant care 
 and love ; 
 
 But m.y first-born still shall wander from the sky, in dreams 
 to rest 
 
 Their soft cheeks and shining tresses on an earthly mother's 
 breast. 
 
94 
 
 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Time may steal away the freshness, or some wheln 
 
 grief destroy 
 All the hopes that erst had blossomed in my summer-ti 
 
 of joy ; 
 Earthly children may forsake me, earthly friends perhaps 
 
 betray, 
 Every tie that now unites me to this life may pass away, 
 
 But, unchanged, those angel watchers, from their blest 
 
 immortal home. 
 Pure and fair, to cheer the sadness of my darkened dreams 
 
 shall come, 
 And I cannot feel forsaken, for, though 'reft of earthly 
 
 love. 
 Angel children call me " Mother !" and my soul will look 
 
 above. 
 
 BURIED TO-DAY. 
 
 L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 
 
 Buried to-day, the true and loving mother, 
 The heart that beat responsive to our own ; 
 
 We start, we pause, we gaze at one another. 
 
 Then, wondering, ask, " Can she indeed be gone ?' 
 
 Vanished the gentle smile by which she won us 
 Ever to duty' s path ; and must we say, 
 
 Of all the love and truth she lavished on us, 
 We buried it to-day ? 
 
 Buried to-day, the kind and generous neighbor, 
 Never forgetful of those counsels sweet 
 
 That comfort stricken ones, and with her latior 
 Smoothing the path for other tired feet ; 
 
SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 iing through every dark and painful hour, 
 Soothing with soft and unobtrusive sway ; 
 Ad must we say of all this gentle power : 
 We buried it to-day ? 
 
 Buried to-day, the noble-hearted woman 
 Living by that high faith to angels given ; 
 
 Blending in all her life the truly human 
 
 With something less of earth and more of heaven 
 
 Faithful and steadfast in her consecration 
 To Duty, striving meekly to obey, 
 
 And can we say of this grand commendation : 
 We buried it to-day ? 
 
 Not so, not so ! Though sorrowing and lonely, 
 We comprehend her pure and perfect peace ; 
 
 We understand the life that served God only, 
 Looking to Him alone for its release ; 
 
 And when Death's gentle summons to surrender 
 Was sweetly answered, let none of us say. 
 
 Of such example — lofty, simple, tender — 
 We buried it to-day ? 
 
 Not so, not so ! When such a lovely story 
 As that of her sweet life on earth appears, 
 
 It crowns all womanhood with gentle glory ; 
 And when it fades there is no room for tears. 
 
 The good her life has wrought will perish never ; 
 And though the worker may be laid away 
 
 To her last rest, the work remains forever, 
 Nor crumbles with the clay ! 
 
 95 
 
96 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 THE PALMETTO AND THE PINE. 
 
 L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 
 
 They planted them together, — our gallant sires of old, — 
 Though one was crowned with crystal snow and one with 
 
 solar gold ; 
 They planted them together on the world's majestic height, 
 At Saratoga' s deathless charge, at Eutaw' s stubborn fight ; 
 At midnight, on the dark redoubt, 'mid plunging shot and 
 
 shell,— 
 At noontide, gasping in the crush of battle' s bloody swell, 
 With gory hands and reeking brows, amid the mighty fray, 
 Which surged and swelled around them on that memor- 
 able day, 
 When they planted independence, as a symbol and a 
 
 sign,— 
 They struck deep soil and planted the Palmetto and the 
 Pine. 
 
 They planted them together, by the river of the years. 
 
 Watered with our fathers' hearts' blood, watered with our 
 mothers' tears ; 
 
 In the strong rich soil of Freedom, with a bounteous 
 benison 
 
 From their prophet, priest, and pioneer, — our father, Wash- 
 ington ! 
 
 Above them floated echoes of the ruin and the wreck. 
 
 Like ' ' drums that beat at Louisburg, and thundered at 
 Quebec." 
 
 But the old light sank in darkness as the new stars rose to 
 shine. 
 
 O'er those emblems of the sections — the Palmetto and the 
 Pine. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 97 
 
 And we'll plant them still together, for 'tis yet the self- 
 same soil 
 
 Our fathers' valor won for us by victory and toil ; 
 
 On Florida's fair everglades, by bold Ontario's flood, 
 
 And through them send electric hfe, as leaps the kindred 
 blood ! 
 
 For thus it is they taught us, who for Freedom hved and 
 died, 
 
 The eternal law of justice must, and shall be justified ; 
 
 That God hath joined together, by a fiat all divine, 
 
 The destinies of dwellers 'neath the Palm-tree and the 
 Pine. 
 
 Ay ! we'll plant them yet together, though the cloud is 
 
 on their brows. 
 And winds antagonistic writhe and wrench the stalwart 
 
 boughs ; 
 Driving winds that drift the nations into gaping gulfs of 
 
 gloom. 
 Sweeping ages, cycles, systems, into vortices of doom ; 
 Though the waves of faction, rolling in triumphant to the 
 
 shore. 
 Are breaking down our bulwarks with their sullen rage 
 
 and roar ; 
 Serried armaments of ocean filing in line after line. 
 Washing up the deep foundations of Palmetto and of Pine. 
 
 Shall this, the soil of Freedom, from their roots be washed 
 
 away 
 By the chafing of the billows and the breaking of the 
 
 spray ? 
 No ! the hand which rules the vortex, which is surging 
 
 now before us, 
 Above its " hell of waters" sets the bow of promise o'er 
 
 us ; 
 E ^ 9 
 
98 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 And the time will come when discord shall be buried in 
 
 the past, 
 The oriflamme of Love shall wave above the breach at last, 
 And beneath the starry banner — type of unity divine — 
 Shall stand those stately signals, the Palmetto and the Pine. 
 
 Shall the old victorious eagle from their boughs be wrenched 
 
 away 
 By the double-headed vulture of disunion and decay ? 
 Forbid it, Heaven ! Columbia, guard thine emblems 
 
 gathered here 
 To grace the brilliant dawning of this grand Centennial 
 
 year ; 
 And bear them as thou marchest on with gonfalons un- 
 
 furle'd, 
 With thy foot upon the fetter, for the freeing of the world ! 
 And guard thy Holy Sepulchre, — Mount Vernon's sacred 
 
 shrine, — 
 For this is Freedom' s holy land, her promised Palestine. 
 
 Oh ! thou voice of God outflowing from the Hps of holy 
 
 Peace, 
 Soothe the turmoil and the tumult, bid the strife and 
 
 sorrow cease ! 
 O'er savannas steeped in sunshine, over mountains dark 
 
 with rain, 
 Send the glad and thrilling tidings in thy sweetly solemn 
 
 strain : 
 Let snowy North and sunny South send up the shout, 
 
 "All's well!" 
 And the music of thy coming strike our heart-strings with 
 
 its swell 
 (As to Jessie Brown at Lucknow struck the air of ' * Auld 
 
 Lang Syne," 
 From the Highland pipes of Havelock), — save the Palm 
 
 and save the Pine ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 99 
 
 God plant them still together ! let them flourish side by 
 side 
 
 In the halls of our Centennial, mailed in more than 
 marble pride ; 
 
 With kindly deeds and noble names, we'll grave them 
 o'er and o'er, 
 
 With brave, historic legends of the glorious days of yore, 
 
 While the clear, exultant chorus, rising from united bands, 
 
 The echo of our triumph peals to earth's remotest lands ; 
 
 While "Faith, Fraternity, and Love" shall joyfully en- 
 twine 
 
 Around our chosen emblems, the Palmetto and the Pine. 
 
 " Together !" shouts Niagara his thunder-toned decree ; 
 " Together !" echo back the waves upon the Mexic sea ; 
 "Together!" sing the sylvan hills where old Atlantic 
 
 roars ; 
 "Together!" boom the breakers on the wild Pacific 
 
 shores ; 
 "Together!" cry the people, — and "together" still shall 
 
 be. 
 An everlasting charter-bond forever for the free ; 
 Of Liberty the signet-seal, the one eternal sign. 
 Be those united emblems, the Palmetto and the Pine. 
 
 ASHES OF GLORY. 
 
 AUGUSTUS JULIAN REQUIER. 
 
 Fold up the gorgeous silken sun, 
 By bleeding martyrs blest. 
 
 And heap the laurels it has won 
 Above its place of rest. 
 
 I. orb 
 
lOO SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 No trumpets note need harshly blare, — 
 
 No drum funereal roll, — 
 No trailing sables drape the bier 
 
 That frees a dauntless soul. 
 
 It lived with Lee, and decked his brow 
 With fate's empyreal palm ; 
 
 It sleeps the sleep of Jackson now, — 
 As spotless and as calm. 
 
 It was outnumbered — not outdone ; 
 
 And they shall shuddering tell. 
 Who struck the blow, its latest gun 
 
 Flashed ruin as it fell. 
 
 Sleep, shrouded ensign ! Not the breeze 
 
 That smote the victor tar 
 With death across the heaving seas 
 
 Of fiery Trafalgar ; 
 
 Not Arthur's knights amid the gloom 
 Their knightly deeds have starred ; 
 
 Nor Gallic Henry's matchless plume. 
 Nor peerless-born Bayard ; 
 
 Not all that antique fables feign, 
 And orient dreams disgorge ; 
 
 Nor yet the silver cross of Spain, 
 And Lion of St. George, 
 
 Can bid thee pale ! Proud emblem, still 
 
 Thy crimson glory shines 
 Beyond the lengthened shades that fill 
 
 Their proudest kingly lines. 
 
 Sleep ! in thine own historic night, — 
 And be thy blazoned scroll ; 
 
 A warrior s banner takes its flight 
 To greet the warrior s soul. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. loi 
 
 ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC TO-NIGHT. 
 
 LAMAR FONTAINE. 
 
 All quiet along the Potomac, they say, 
 
 Except here and there a stray picket 
 Is shot as he walks on his beat to and fro 
 
 By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 
 'Tis nothing, a private or two now and then 
 
 Will not count in the news of the battle ; 
 Not an officer lost, only one of the men 
 
 Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle. 
 
 All quiet along the Potomac to-night. 
 
 Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ; 
 Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon 
 
 Or the light of the camp-fires gleaming. 
 A tremulous sigh, as a gentle night wind 
 
 Through the forest leaves softly is creeping, 
 While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes. 
 
 Keep guard o'er the army while sleeping. 
 
 There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread 
 
 As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, 
 And thinks of the two on the low trundle-bed 
 
 Far away in the cot on the mountain. 
 His musket falls slack, and his face dark and grim 
 
 Grows gentle with memories tender, 
 As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep ; 
 
 For their mother, may Heaven defend her ! 
 
 The moon seems to shine as brightly as then, — 
 That night when the love yet unspoken 
 
 Leaped up to his lips, and when low murmured vows 
 Were pledged, to be ever unbroken. 
 9* 
 
I02 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Then, drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, 
 
 He dashes off tears that are weUing, 
 And gathers his gun close up to its place. 
 
 As if to keep down the heart-sweUing. 
 
 He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree ; 
 
 The footsteps are lagging and weary ; 
 Yet onward they go, through the broad belt of hght, 
 
 Toward the shade of the forest so dreary. 
 Hark ! was it the night-wind rustled the leaves ? 
 
 Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing ? 
 It looked like a rifle ! " Ha ! Mary, good-by," 
 
 And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. 
 
 All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 
 No sound save the rush of the river, 
 
 Whilst soft falls the dew on the face of the dead, — 
 The picket' s off duty forever ! 
 
 THE OLD CANOE. 
 
 ANONYMOUS i 
 
 \JU 
 
 Where the rocks are gray, and the shore is steep. 
 And the waters below look dark and deep ; 
 Where the rugged pine in its lonely pride 
 Leans gloomily over the murky tide ; 
 Where the reeds and rushes are long and lank, 
 And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank ; 
 Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through, 
 There hes at its moorings the old canoe. 
 
 The useless paddles are idly dropped, 
 
 Like a sea-bird' s wing that the storm has lopped. 
 
 And crossed on the raihng one o'er one. 
 
 Like the folded hands when the work is done ; 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 103 
 
 While busily back and forth between 
 The spider stretches his silvery screen, 
 And the solemn owl, with its dull tu-whoo, 
 Settles down on the side of the old canoe. 
 
 The stern half sunk in the slimy wave 
 
 Rots slowly away in its living grave, 
 
 And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay, 
 
 Hiding its mouldering dust away. 
 
 Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower, 
 
 Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower ; 
 
 While many a blossom of loveliest hue 
 
 Springs up o'er the stern of the old canoe. 
 
 The currentless waters are dead and still, 
 The twilight-wind plays with the boat at will. 
 And lazily in and out again 
 It floats the length of its rusty chain ; 
 Like the weary march of the hands of Time 
 That meet and part at the noontide chime. 
 As the shore is kissed at each turn anew. 
 By the dripping bow of the old canoe. 
 
 Oh, many a time, with careless hand, 
 I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand ! 
 And paddled it down where the stream runs quick. 
 Where the whirls are wild and the eddies thick. 
 And laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side, 
 And looked below in the broken tide, 
 To see that the faces and boats were two 
 That were mirrored back from the old canoe. 
 
 But now, as I lean o'er the crumbling side 
 And look below in the sluggish tide, 
 The face that I see there is graver grown. 
 And the laugh that I hear has a soberer tone, 
 
I04 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 And the hands that lent to the Hght skiff wings 
 
 Have grown famihar with sterner things. 
 
 But I love to think of the hours that sped 
 
 As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed, 
 
 Ere the blossom waved or the green grass grew 
 
 O'er the mouldering stern of the old canoe. 
 
 MISSING. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 In the cool sweet hush of a wooded nook, 
 
 Where the May buds sprinkle the green old mound, 
 And the winds, and the birds, and the limpid brook. 
 
 Murmur their dreams with a drowsy sound ; 
 Who lies so still in the plushy moss, 
 
 With his pale cheek pressed on his breezy pillow, 
 Couched where the light and the shadows cross 
 
 Through the flickering fringe of the willow ? 
 Who lies, alas ! 
 So still, so chill, in the whispering grass ? 
 
 A soldier clad in the Zouave dress, 
 
 A bright-haired ma.n, with his lips apart. 
 One hand thrown up o'er his frank, dead face, 
 
 And the other clutching his pulseless heart, 
 Lies here in the shadows, cool and dim, 
 
 His musket swept by a trailing bough ; 
 With a careless grace in his quiet Kmbs, 
 
 And a wound on his manly brow ; 
 A wound, alas ! 
 Whence the warm blood drips on the quiet grass. 
 
 The violets peer from their dusky beds, 
 
 With a tearful dew in their great pure eyes ; 
 
 The lilies quiver their shining heads. 
 Their pale lips full of sad surprise ; 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 And the lizard darts through the glistening fern ; 
 
 And the squirrel rustles the branches hoary ; 
 Strange birds fly out with a cry, to bathe 
 
 Their wings in the sunset glory, 
 
 While the shadows pass 
 
 O'er the quiet face and the dewy grass. 
 
 God pity the bride who waits at home 
 
 With her lily cheeks and her violet eyes, 
 Dreaming the sweet old dream of love, 
 
 While her lover is walking in paradise ; 
 God strengthen her heart as the days go by, 
 
 And the long, drear nights of her vigil follow ; 
 Nor bird, nor moon, nor whispering wind, 
 
 May breathe the tale of the hollow ; 
 Alas ! alas ! 
 The secret is safe with the woodland grass. 
 
 105 
 
 THE SOLDIER BOY. 
 
 H. M. L. 
 
 I GIVE my soldier boy a blade, 
 
 In fair Damascus fashioned well ; 
 Who first the glittering falchion swayed, 
 
 Who first beneath its fury fell, 
 I know not : but I hope to know 
 
 That for no mean or hireling trade, 
 To guard no feeling, base or low, 
 
 I give my soldier boy a blade. 
 
 Cool, calm, and clear the lucid flood 
 In which its tempering work was done 
 
 As calm, as cool, as clear of mood 
 Be thou whene'er it sees the sun : 
 
lo6 SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 For country's claim, at honor's call, 
 For outraged friend, insulted maid, 
 
 At mercy's voice to bid it fall, 
 I give my soldier boy a blade. 
 
 The eye which marked its peerless edge. 
 
 The hand that weighed its balanced poise, 
 Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge. 
 
 Are gone, with all their flame and noise ; 
 And still the gleaming sword remains. 
 
 So when in dust I low am laid. 
 Remember by these heartfelt strains 
 
 I gave my soldier boy a blade. 
 
 VIRGINIA'S DEAD. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Proud mother of a race that reared 
 
 The brave and good of ours, 
 Lo ! on thy bleeding bosom lie 
 
 Thy pale and perished flowers. 
 Where'er upon her own bright soil 
 
 Hosts meet their blood to shed. 
 Where brightest gleams the victor's sword, 
 
 There He Virginia's dead. 
 
 And where upon the crimson field 
 
 The cannon loudest roars. 
 And hero blood for Hberty 
 
 A streaming torrent pours ; 
 Where fiercest glows the battle's rage. 
 
 And Southern banners spread, 
 Where minions crouch and vassals kneel, 
 
 There lie Virginia's dead. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 107 
 
 Where bright Potomac's classic wave 
 
 Flows softly to the sea, 
 And Shenandoah's Valley smiles 
 
 In her captivity ; 
 Where sullen Mississippi rolls, 
 
 By foaming torrents fed, 
 And Tennessee's smooth ripple breaks, 
 
 There sleep Virginia's dead. 
 
 And where 'mid dreary mountain heights 
 
 The frost-king sternly sate, 
 As Garnett cheered his followers on, 
 
 And nobly met his fate ; 
 Where Johnson, Lee, and Beauregard 
 
 Their gallant armies led, 
 Through winter snows and tropic suns, 
 
 There sleep Virginia's dead. 
 
 And where through Georgia's flowery meads 
 
 The proud Savannah flows, 
 And soft o'er Carolina's brow 
 
 Atlantic' s pure breeze flows ; 
 Where Florida's sweet tropic flowers 
 
 Their dewy fragrance shed, 
 And night-winds sigh through orange groves, 
 
 There sleep Virginia's dead. 
 
 Where sad Louisiana's eye 
 
 Looks darkly on her chains. 
 And proud New Orleans' noble street 
 
 The despot heel profanes ; 
 Where virtue shrinks in dread dismay, 
 
 And beauty bows her head. 
 Where courage spurns the oppressors' yoke. 
 
 There lie Virginia's dead. 
 
io8 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 'Neath Alabama's sunny skies, 
 
 On Texas' burning shore, 
 Where blooming prairies brightly sweep 
 
 Missouri's bosom o'er ; 
 Where bold Kentucky's lion heart 
 
 Leaps to her Morgan' s tread, 
 And tyrants quail at Freedom's cry, 
 
 There sleep Virginia's dead. 
 
 And where the ocean's trackless waves 
 
 O'er palUd corpses sweep. 
 As, 'mid the cannon's thunder peal, 
 
 " Deep calleth unto deep ;" 
 Wherever Honor's sword is drawn, 
 
 And Justice rears her head, 
 Where heroes fall and martyrs bleed, 
 
 There rest Virginia' s dead. 
 
 STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY. 
 
 JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER. 
 
 Come, stack arms, men ! Pile on the rails. 
 
 Stir up the camp-fire bright ; 
 No matter if the canteen fails, 
 
 We'll make a roaring night. 
 Here Shenandoah brawls along. 
 There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, 
 To swell the brigade's rousing song 
 
 Of " Stonewall Jackson's way." 
 
 We see him now, — the old slouched hat 
 
 Cocked o'er his eye askew ; 
 The shrewd, dry smile, the speech so pat, 
 
 So calm, so blunt, so true. 
 
SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 109 
 
 The " Blue-Light Elder" knows 'em well ; 
 Says he, " That's Banks, — he's fond of shell ; 
 
 Lord save his soul ! we'll give him ;" well, 
 
 That's " Stonewall Jackson's way." 
 
 Silence ! ground arms ! kneel all ! caps off! 
 
 Old Blue-Light's going to pray. 
 Strangle the fool that dares to scoff! 
 
 Attention ! it's his way. 
 Appealing from his native sod, 
 In forma pauperis to God, 
 ' ' Lay bare Thine arm ; stretch forth Thy rod 1 
 
 Amen !" That's "Stonewall's way." 
 
 He's in the saddle now. Fall in ! 
 
 Steady ! the whole brigade ! 
 Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win 
 
 His way out, ball and blade ! 
 What matter if our shoes are worn ? 
 What matter if our feet are torn ? 
 "Quick-step ! we're with him before morn !" 
 
 That's " Stonewall Jackson's way." 
 
 The sun's bright lances rout the mists 
 
 Of morning, and, by George ! 
 Here's Longstreet struggling in the Hsts, 
 
 Hemmed in an ugly gorge. 
 Pope and his Yankees, whipped before, 
 " Bay' nets and grape !" hear Stonewall roar ; 
 "Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score !" 
 
 Is "Stonewall Jackson's way." 
 
 Ah ! maiden, wait and watch and yearn 
 
 For news of Stonewall's band ! 
 Ah ! widow, read with eyes that burn 
 
 That ring upon thy hand. 
 10 
 
no SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Ah ! wife, sew on, pray on, hope on, 
 Thy Hfe shall not be all forlorn ; 
 The foe had better ne'er been born 
 That gets in ' ' Stonewall' s way. ' ' 
 
 CHISEL-WORK. 
 
 MARGARET J. PRESTON. 
 I. 
 
 'Tis the Master who holds the mallet, 
 
 And day by day 
 He is chipping whatever environs 
 
 The form away ; 
 Which, under His skilful cutting, 
 
 He means shall be 
 Wrought silently out to beauty 
 
 Of such degree 
 Of faultless and full perfection, 
 
 That angel eyes 
 Shall look on the finished labor 
 
 With new surprise, 
 That even His boundless patience 
 
 Could grave His own 
 Features upon such fractured 
 
 And stubborn stone. 
 
 II. 
 
 'Tis the Master who holds the chisel ; 
 
 He knows just where 
 Its edge should be driven sharpest. 
 
 To fashion there 
 The semblance that He is carving ; 
 
 Nor will He let 
 One delicate stroke too many. 
 
 Or few, be set 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. m 
 
 On forehead, or cheek, where only 
 
 He sees how all 
 Is tending, and where the hardest 
 
 The blow should fall, 
 Which crumbles away whatever 
 
 Superfluous line 
 Would hinder His hand from making 
 
 The work divine. 
 
 III. 
 With tools of Thy choosing. Master, 
 
 We pray Thee, then. 
 Strike just as Thou wilt ; as often, 
 
 And where, and when 
 The vehement stroke is needed. 
 
 We will not mind, 
 If only Thy chipping chisel 
 
 Shall leave behind 
 Such marks of Thy wondrous working 
 
 And loving skill. 
 Clear carven on aspect, stature. 
 
 And face, as will. 
 When discipline's ends are over, 
 
 Have all-sufficed 
 To mould us into the likeness 
 
 And form of Christ. 
 
 A YEAR IN HEAVEN. 
 
 MARGARET J. PRESTON. 
 
 A YEAR uncalendared ; — for what 
 Hast thou to do with mortal time ? 
 
 Its dole of moments entereth not 
 That circle, infinite, sublime. 
 
112 SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Whose unreached centre is the throne 
 
 Of Him before whose awful brow 
 Meeting eternities are known 
 
 As but an everlasting Now ! 
 The thought uplifts thee far away, — 
 
 Too far beyond my love and tears ; 
 Ah ! let me hold thee as I may, 
 
 And count thy time by earthly years. 
 
 II. 
 
 A year of blessedness, wherein 
 
 No faintest cloud hath crossed thy soul ; 
 No throe of pain, no taint of sin, 
 
 No frail mortality's control : 
 Not once hath disappointment stung. 
 
 Nor care, world-weary, made thee pine ; 
 But rapture such as human tongue 
 
 Hath found no language for, is thine. 
 Made perfect at thy passing, who 
 
 Dare sum thine added glory now. 
 As onward, upward, pressing through 
 
 The ranks that with veiled faces bow. 
 Ascending still from height to height. 
 
 Fearless where, hushed, the seraphs trod, 
 Unfaltering midst the circles bright. 
 
 Thou tendest inward unto God ? 
 
 III. 
 
 A year of progress in the lore 
 
 That is not learned on earth : thy mind, 
 Unclogged of clay, and free to soar. 
 
 Hath left the realms of doubt behind. 
 And mysteries which thy finite thought 
 
 In vain essayed to solve, appear 
 To thine untasked inquiries fraught 
 
 With explanations strangely clear. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 113 
 
 Thy reason owns no forced control 
 
 As held it here in needful thrall, 
 God's secrets court thy questioning soul, 
 
 And thou mayst search and know them all. 
 
 IV. 
 A year of love ; thy yearning heart 
 
 Was always tender, even to tears, 
 And sympathy's responsive art 
 
 Lent its warm coloring to thy years. 
 But love, whose wordless ecstasy 
 
 Had overborne the finite, now 
 Throbs through thy saintly purity. 
 
 And burns upon thy dazzling brow. 
 For thou the hands' dear clasp hast felt 
 
 That show the nail-prints still displayed. 
 And thou before the face hast knelt 
 
 That wears the scars the thorns have made. 
 
 V. 
 A year without thee : — I had thought 
 
 My orphaned heart would break and die 
 Ere time had meek quiescence wrought. 
 
 Or soothed the tears it could not dry. 
 And yet I live, — to faint, to groan, 
 
 To stagger with the woe 1 bear. 
 To miss thee so ! — to moan and moan 
 
 The name I dare not breathe in prayer ! 
 Thou praising, while I weakly pine ; 
 
 Enraptured, while I sorrow sore, — 
 And thus betwixt thy soul and mine 
 
 The distance widening evermore ! 
 
 VI. 
 A year of tears to me ; to thee 
 
 The end of thy probation's strife. 
 The archway to eternity, 
 
 The portal of thy deathless life ; 
 h 10* 
 
114 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 To me the corse, the bier, the sod ; 
 
 To thee, the palm of victory given : 
 Enough, my bruised heart ! Thank God 
 
 That thou hast been a year in heaven ! 
 
 BEFORE DEATH. 
 
 MARGARET J. PRESTON. 
 I. 
 
 How much would I care for it, could I know, 
 That when I am under the grass or snow, 
 The ravelled garment of life's brief day 
 Folded, and quietly laid away ; 
 The spirit let loose from mortal bars. 
 And somewhere away among the stars : 
 How much do you think it would matter then 
 What praise was lavished upon me, when. 
 Whatever might be its stint or store, 
 It neither could help nor harm me more } 
 
 II. 
 
 If midst of my toil they had but thought 
 To stretch a finger, I would have caught 
 Gladly such aid, to bear me through 
 Some bitter duty I had to do : 
 And when it was done, had I but heard 
 One breath of applause, one cheering word, 
 One cry of " Courage !" amid the strife. 
 So weighted for me, with death or life. 
 How would it have nerved my soul to strain 
 Through the whirl of the coming surge again ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 115 
 
 What use for the rope, if it be not flung 
 
 Till the swimmer' s grasp to the rock has clung ? 
 
 What help in a comrade's bugle-blast 
 
 When the peril of Alpine heights is past ? 
 
 What need that the spurring paean roll 
 
 When the runner is safe beyond the goal ? 
 
 What worth is eulogy's blandest breath 
 
 When whispered in ears that are hushed in death ? 
 
 No ! no ! if you have but a word of cheer, 
 
 Speak it, while I am alive to hear ! 
 
 THE BLEMISHED OFFERING. 
 
 MARGARET J. PRESTON. 
 I. 
 
 " I WOULD my gift were worthier !" sighed the Greek, 
 As on he goaded to the temple-door 
 His spotted bullock. " Ever of our store 
 
 Doth Zeus require the best ; and fat and sleek 
 
 The ox I vowed to him (no brindled streak, 
 
 No fleck of dun), when through the breakers' roar 
 - He bore me safe that day to Naxos' shore ; 
 
 And now, — my gratitude, — how seeming weak ! 
 
 " But here be chalk-pits : what if I should white 
 
 The blotches, hiding all unfitness so ? 
 
 The victim in the people's eyes would show 
 Better therefor ; — the sacrificial rite 
 
 Be quicklier granted at thus fair a sight. 
 And the great Zeus himself might never know." 
 
Il6 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 We have a God who knows : and yet we dare 
 On his consuming altar-coals to lay 
 (Driven by the prick of conscience to obey) 
 
 The whited sacrifice, the hollow prayer, 
 
 In place of what we vowed, in our despair, 
 Of best and holiest ; — glad no mortal may 
 Pierce through the cheat, and hoping half to stay 
 
 That Eye before whose search all souls are bare ! 
 
 Nay, rather : — let us bring the victim-heart 
 Defiled, unworthy, blemished, though it be, 
 And fling it on the flame, entreating, ' ' See — 
 
 I blush to know how vile in every part 
 Is this my gift, through sin's delusive art, 
 
 Yet. 'tis the best that I can offer Thee !" 
 
 ANISE AND CUMMIN. 
 
 MARGARET J. PRESTON. 
 
 Weary with homely duties done. 
 Tired through treading day by day. 
 
 Over and over, from sun to sun, 
 
 One and the same small round alway, 
 Under her breath I heard her say : 
 
 ' ' Oh for the sweep of the keen-edged scythe ! 
 
 Oh for the swaths, when the reaping' s o'er, — 
 Proof of the toil's success ! I tithe 
 
 Anise and cummin, — such petty store ! 
 
 Cummin and anise, — nothing more ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 " Only a meagre garden-space, 
 
 Out of the world so rich and broad, — 
 
 Only a strip of standing-place, 
 Only a patch of herb-strown sod, 
 Given, in which to work for God ! 
 
 • ' Yet is my hand as full of care 
 Under the shine and frost and rain, 
 
 Tending and weeding and watching there, 
 Even as though I deemed a wain 
 Were to be piled with sheaves of grain. 
 
 "Then, when the work is done, what cheer 
 Have I to greet me, great or small ? 
 
 What that shall show how year by year 
 Patient I've wrought at duty's call ? 
 Anise and cummin, — that is all !" 
 
 Turning, I raised the drooping head, 
 Just as I heard a sob arise : 
 
 "Anise and cummin and mint," I said, 
 Kissing her over her aching eyes, 
 " Even our Lord doth not despise. 
 
 " Think you He looks for headed wheat 
 Out of your plot of garden-ground ? 
 
 Think you He counts as incomplete 
 Service that from such scanty bound 
 Yields Him the tithing He has found ? 
 
 "What are to Him the world's wide plains, - 
 Him who hath never a need to fill 
 
 Even one garner with our small gains ? 
 Yet, if the plot is yours to till, 
 Tithe Him the anise and cummin still !" 
 
 117 
 
Ii8 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 GONE FORWARD. 
 
 MARGARET J. PRESTON. 
 
 Yes, " Let the tent be struck :" * victorious morning 
 
 Through every crevice flashes in a day 
 Magnificent beyond all earth's adorning : 
 
 The night is over ; wherefore should he stay ? 
 
 And wherefore should our voices choke to say, 
 ' ' The General has gone forward' ' ? 
 
 Life's foughten field not once beheld surrender, 
 
 But with superb endurance, present, past. 
 Our pure commander, lofty, simple, tender. 
 
 Through good, through ill, held his high purpose fast, 
 
 Wearing his armor spotless, — till at last 
 Death gave the final " Forward !" 
 
 All hearts grew sudden palsied : yet what said he 
 
 Thus summoned? — "Let the tent be struck !"— For 
 when 
 Did call of duty fail to find him ready 
 Nobly to do his work in sight of men. 
 For God's and for his country's sake — and then 
 To watch, wait, or go forward ? 
 
 We will not weep, — we dare not ! such a story 
 As his large life writes on the century's years 
 
 Should crowd our bosoms with a flush of glory 
 That manhood's type, supremest that appears 
 To-day, he shows the ages. Nay, no tears 
 Because he has gone forward. 
 
 * Dying words of General R. E. Lee. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 119 
 
 Gone forward : — whither ? Where the marshalled legions, 
 Christ's well-worn soldiers, from their conflicts cease, — 
 
 Where Faith' s true Red-Cross Knights repose in regions 
 Thick-studded with the calm, white tents of peace, — 
 Thither, right joyful to accept release. 
 The General has gone forward ! 
 
 THE FIG-MERCHANT. 
 
 MARGARET J. PRESTON. 
 
 ' ' In the name of the Prophet, figs T ' 
 
 Through the drowse of the noon afar 
 Came droning the Arab vender' s cry, 
 
 As he threaded the thronged bazaar. 
 With the courage that comes of faith, 
 
 He neither had thought nor care, 
 Though the lip of the scornful Greek might curl, 
 
 Or the insolent Frank might stare. 
 
 ' ' In the name of the Prophet, figs /' ' 
 
 A traveller, loitering near, ' 
 
 Half screened in a niche's deep recess, 
 
 Turned languidly 'round to hear. 
 But scarce had the Arab passed. 
 
 Ere a ripple, that seemed a sigh, 
 Blurred faintly the calm of his lip, and broke 
 
 In a haze on his dreaming eye. 
 
 " In the name of the Prophet, figs F ' 
 
 He listened with downcast face, 
 "This Moslem," he said, "is brave to own 
 
 His creed in the market-place ; 
 While I, with supremest trust 
 
 And a hope that can know no shame, 
 Not once in the midst of this multitude 
 
 Have thought of my Prophet's name. 
 
I20 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 ' ' In the nai7ie of the Prophet, figs /' ' 
 
 No vagueness about the way- 
 He honors the slow muezzin call, 
 
 When his hour has come to pray. 
 It matters not where he be, 
 
 His worship his faith reveals ; 
 Would I have the manhood, amid these crowds, 
 
 To kneel as the Arab kneels ? 
 
 " In the name of the Prophet, figs /" 
 
 It sinks to an echo sweet, 
 Yet floats to me back with a pungent sting 
 
 Of reproach in this foreign street. 
 It bids that, with faith as bold 
 
 As the Moslem' s, I bravely do 
 All things whatever, or great or small. 
 
 In the name of my Prophet, too !" 
 
 STONEWALL JACKSON'S GRAVE. 
 
 MARGARET J. PRESTON. 
 
 A SIMPLE, sodded mound of earth. 
 
 With not a line above it — 
 With only daily votive flowers 
 
 To prove that any love it ; 
 The token flag that, silently, 
 
 Each breeze's visit numbers. 
 Alone keeps martial ward above 
 
 The hero's dreamless slumbers. 
 
 No name ? no record ? Ask the world- 
 The world has, heard his story — 
 
 If all its annals can unfold 
 A prouder tale of glory ? 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 121 
 
 If ever merely human life 
 
 Hath taught diviner moral — 
 If ever round a worthier brow 
 
 Was twined a purer laurel ? 
 
 Humanity's responsive heart 
 
 Concedes his wond'rous powers, 
 And pulses with a tenderness 
 
 Almost akin to ours ; 
 Nay, not to ours — for us he poured 
 
 His life — a rich oblation ; 
 And on adoring souls we bear 
 
 His blood of consecration. 
 
 A twelvemonth only since his sword 
 
 Went flashing through the battle ; 
 A twelvemonth only since his ear 
 
 Heard war's last deadly rattle. 
 And yet have countless pilgrim feet 
 
 The pilgrim's guerdon paid him ; 
 And weeping women come to see 
 
 The place where they have laid him. 
 
 Contending armies * bring, in turn. 
 
 Their meed of praise or honor ; 
 And Pallas here has paused to bind 
 
 The cypress wreath upon her. 
 It seems a holy sepulchre 
 
 Whose sanctities can waken 
 Alike the love of friend or foe — 
 
 Of Christian or of Pagan. 
 
 * In the month of June, 1864, this singular spectacle was presented 
 at Lexington, Virginia, of two hostile armies in turn reverently 
 visiting the grave of Stonewall Jackson. 
 F II 
 
122 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 They come to own his high emprise 
 
 Who fled in frantic masses 
 Before the ghttering bayonet 
 
 That triumphed at Manassas ; 
 Who witnessed Kernstown's fearful odds, 
 
 As on their ranks he thundered, 
 Defiant as the storied Greek 
 
 Amid his brave three hundred. 
 
 They well recall the tiger spring, 
 
 The wise retreat, the rally ; 
 The tireless march, the fierce pursuit 
 
 Through many a mountain valley. 
 Cross Keys unlocks new paths to fame. 
 
 And Port Republic's story 
 Wrests from his ever-vanquished foes 
 
 Strange tributes to his glory ! 
 
 Cold Harbor rises to their view, 
 
 The Cedar's gloom is o'er them, 
 Antietam's rough and rugged heights 
 
 Stretch mockingly before them. 
 The lurid flames of Fredericksburg 
 
 Right grimly they remember. 
 That lit the frozen night' s retreat 
 
 That wintry, wild December. 
 
 The largesse of their praise is flung 
 
 With bounty rare and regal ; 
 Is it because the vulture fears 
 
 No longer the dead eagle .'' 
 Nay, rather far accept it thus : 
 
 A homage true and tender. 
 As soldier unto soldier's worth — 
 
 As brave to brave will render! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 But who shall weigh the wordless grief 
 
 That leaves in tears its traces, 
 As 'round their leader crowd again 
 
 Those bronzed and veteran faces ? 
 The " old brigade" he loved so well, — 
 
 The mountain men who bound him 
 With bays of their own winning, ere 
 
 A tardier fame had crowned him. 
 
 The legions who had seen his glance 
 
 Across the carnage flashing. 
 And thrilled to catch his ringing " Charge !' 
 
 Above the volley crashing ; 
 Who oft had watched the lifted hand 
 
 The inward trust betraying. 
 And felt their courage grow sublime 
 
 While they beheld him praying. 
 
 Good knights, and true as ever drew 
 
 Their swords with knightly Roland, 
 Or died at Sobieski's side 
 
 For love of martyred Poland ; 
 Or knelt with Cromwell's " Ironsides," 
 
 Or sung with brave Gustavus, 
 Or on the field of Austerlitz 
 
 Breathed out their dying "aves." 
 
 Rare fame ! rare name ! if chanted praise. 
 
 With all the world to hsten ; 
 If pride that swells a nation's soul ; 
 
 If foeman's tears that glisten ; 
 If pilgrim' s shrining love ; if grief 
 
 Which naught can soothe or sever, — 
 If these can consecrate, this spot 
 
 Is sacred ground forever. 
 
 123 
 
124 
 
 SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 WASHINGTON— PATER PATRI^. 
 
 JAMES BARRON HOPE. 
 
 (From " Arms and the Man.") 
 
 Achilles came from Homer's Jove-like brain, 
 Pavilioned 'mid his ships where Thetis trod ; 
 But he whose image dominates this plain 
 Came from the hand of God ! 
 
 Yet, of his life, which shall all time adorn 
 
 I dare not sing : to try the theme would be 
 To drink as 'twere that Scandinavian horn 
 Whose tip was in the sea. 
 
 I bow my head and go upon my ways, 
 
 Who tells that story can but gild the gold ; 
 Could I pile Alps on Apennines of praise 
 The tale would not be told. 
 
 Not his the blade which lyric fables say 
 
 Cleft Pyrenees from ridge to nether bed, 
 But his sword which cleared the Sacred Way 
 For Freedom's feet to tread. 
 
 Not Caesar's genius nor Napoleon's skill 
 
 Gave him proud mast'ry o'er the trembling earth ; 
 But great in honesty, and sense, and will — 
 He was the "man of worth." 
 
 He knew not North, nor South, nor West, nor East 
 
 Childless himself. Father of States he stood, 
 Strong and sagacious as a knight turned priest, 
 And vowed to deeds of good. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Compared with all earth' s heroes I may say- 
 He was, with even half his virtues hid, 
 Greater in what his hand refrained than they 
 Were great in what they did. 
 
 And thus his image dominates all time, 
 
 Uplifted like the everlasting dome 
 Which rises in a miracle subhme 
 Above eternal Rome. 
 
 On Rome's once blooming plain where'er we stray 
 
 That dome majestic rises on the view. 
 Its Cross aglow with every wandering ray 
 That shines along the blue. 
 
 So his vast image shadows all the lands. 
 
 So holds forever man's adoring eye, 
 And o'er the Union which he left, it stands 
 Our cross against the sky. 
 
 125 
 
 OUR ANGLO-SAXON TONGUE. 
 
 JAMES BARRON HOPE. 
 
 Good is the Saxon speech ! clear, short, and strong. 
 
 Its clean-cut words, fit both for prayer and song ; 
 
 Good is this tongue for all the needs of hfe ; 
 
 Good for sweet words with friend, or child, or wife. 
 
 Seax — short sword — and like a sword its sway 
 Hews out a path 'mid all the forms of speech. 
 For in itself it hath the power to teach 
 
 Itself, while many tongues slow fade away. 
 
 'Tis good for laws ; for vows of youth and maid ; 
 Good for the preacher ; or shrewd folk in trade ; 
 
126, SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Good for sea-calls when loud the rush of spray ; 
 Good for war-cries where men meet hilt to hilt, 
 And man's best blood like new-trod wine is spilt, 
 Good for all times, and good for what thou wilt ! 
 
 GUARD THINE ACTION. 
 
 SALLIE ADA VANCE MALONE. 
 
 When you meet with one suspected 
 
 Of some secret deed of shame, 
 And for this by all rejected 
 
 As a thing of evil fame, 
 Guard thine every look and action, 
 
 Speak no heartless word of blame. 
 For the slanderer's vile detraction 
 
 Yet may spoil thy goodly name. 
 
 When you meet a brow that's awing 
 
 With its wrinkled lines of gloom. 
 And a haughty step that's drawing 
 
 To a solitary tomb, 
 Guard thine action ; some great sorrow 
 
 Made that man a spectre grim ; 
 And the sunset of to-morrow 
 
 May have left thee like to him. 
 
 When you meet with one pursuing 
 
 Paths the lost have entered in, 
 Working out his own undoing 
 
 With his recklessness and sin. 
 Think, if placed in his condition, 
 
 Would a kind word be in vain ? 
 Or a look of cold suspicion 
 
 Win thee back to truth again ? 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 There are spots that bear no flowers, 
 
 Not because the soil is bad, 
 But that summer's gentle showers 
 
 Never made their bosoms glad ; 
 Better have an act that's kindly 
 
 Treated sometimes with disdain, 
 Than, by judging others blindly, 
 
 Doom the innocent to pain. 
 
 127 
 
 UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 LOGAN E. BLECKLEY. 
 
 He has thy hand, the altar vow 
 Has made that his forever ; 
 
 But not thy heart, for it will bow 
 To his dominion never. 
 
 Thy spirit still will soar aloft — 
 Still keep thee far above him ; 
 
 And, though he claim thy pity oft, 
 Yet never canst thou love him. 
 
 His lot is hard, but harder thine, 
 Half wedded, gifted woman ; 
 
 For thou art only not divine. 
 And he is — only human. 
 
128 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 A YEAR OR TWO MORE. 
 
 W. p. RIVERS. 
 
 In a little back room, by the sparkling bright fire, 
 
 Sits dreaming an octogenarian sire ; 
 
 In his quaint old arm-chair he is sitting alone, 
 
 And he dreams of the years and the friends that are gone. 
 
 Bright pictures look up from the hearth, in the flames ; 
 Three others look down from their old gilded frames, 
 His own portrait there, and his wife's at his side. 
 And "Washington's family," — the old soldier's pride. 
 
 He dreams of tent-life, and Cadwallader' s men : 
 He hears the roll-call that summoned them then ; 
 He wonders how many, the good and the brave, 
 Could muster and answer this side of the grave ! 
 
 He dreams of his country's bright patriot past ; 
 Of the halcyon days that are now overcast ; 
 Of blessings unnumbered, the perils they cost ; 
 Of glories declining, and how they are lost. 
 
 He dreams of the years, how they ebb and they flow ! 
 The old and the young, how they come and they go ! 
 Of treasures how fleeting, though earned by hard toils, 
 Time's changes and wrecks, and of death's cruel spoils ! 
 
 Of the hopes that went forth, like brave ships on life's main ; 
 How few the full-freighted that have come home again ! 
 How many that sailed, seeking fortune's fair shore, 
 Are lying dismantled, to go out no more .' 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 129 
 
 The old man sits there, in his chair all alone, 
 
 He is breathing a prayer in a sad monotone ; 
 
 He is dreaming of her now, who sat with him there, 
 
 A twelvemonth ago, in that "vacant arm-chair," 
 
 He dreams, and he sees with a prophet's clear eye 
 A spirit-ship gliding along the bright sky ; 
 Down, down through the air, as it floats on his sight, 
 With its white sails and rigging all mantled in light ! 
 
 There's a vision of forms mid the ship's airy wings. 
 
 Of faces angelic and heavenly things ; 
 
 There are friends and companions that long since have 
 
 gone. 
 And the old soldier there sits no longer alone ! 
 
 There's a clasping of hands, and a greeting, and cheer, 
 And they wish the old soldier " A happy New Year I" 
 "You're weary," they say, "here alone on the shore ; 
 Wait awhile, and be patient, a year or two more /" 
 
 The spirit-ship glides down the harbor to sea, 
 As fair as a vision from Heaven can be ! 
 The faces so dear fade again on the air, — 
 And the old man awakes, yet alone in his chair. 
 
 * 4f -Jf ^ -X- * -X- 
 
 And now, with his little grandchild on his knee, 
 
 He tells of the ship that he saw go to sea ; 
 
 And he says, " Grandpa's weary alone on the shore, — 
 
 The ship will come back in a year or two more !" 
 
 And the child sweetly asks, "Will the ship come for me ? 
 
 May all of us go with you over the sea ?' ' 
 
 "Ah, darling," he sighs, "we all shall sail o'er, 
 
 But grandpa must go in a year or two more !" 
 
130 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 CHASTENED GRIEF. 
 
 ANDREW ADGATE LIPSCOMB. 
 
 (At the grave of a son.) 
 
 I THOUGHT that thou in coming time 
 
 Wouldst be my strength and stay ; 
 I thought to find in thy full prime 
 
 Support amidst decay ; 
 No other one such help could give, 
 
 So tender, strong, and wise ; 
 'Twas happiness with thee to live, 
 
 Though crushed so many ties. 
 
 But I am here to do for thee, 
 
 In spring-time' s early hours. 
 What thou canst never do for me, — 
 
 Bedeck my tomb with flowers. 
 And yet for me a work thou dost, 
 
 Which not till late I knew ; 
 God help my heart this hope to trust ! 
 
 Of all my hopes most true. 
 
 My tears thou wouldst not here restrain 
 
 Beside his resting-place, 
 Whose life ne'er gave a moment's pain. 
 
 Nor aught else to efface. 
 I know the loss ; I know the gain ; 
 
 And oft in thought they blend, 
 Like sunshine gleaming after rain 
 
 When sudden showers descend. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 THE EXILE TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 JOSEPH BRENNAN. 
 
 Come to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee, 
 Daytime and night-time, I'm thinking about thee ; 
 Night-time and daytime, in dreams I behold thee ; 
 Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee. 
 Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten ; 
 Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten ; 
 Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly ; 
 Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy. 
 
 Swallows will flit 'round the desolate ruin, 
 Telling of spring and its joyous renewing ; 
 And thoughts of thy love and its manifold treasure 
 Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. 
 O Spring of my spirit ! O May of my bosom ! 
 Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blossom ; 
 The waste of my life has a rose-root within it. 
 And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. 
 
 Figure that moves like a song through the even, 
 Features lit up by a reflex of heaven ; 
 Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother. 
 Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each other ; 
 Smile coming seldom, but childlike and simple. 
 Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple ; 
 Oh, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seeming 
 Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming ! 
 
 You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened 
 Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened ? 
 Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love, 
 As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love. 
 
 131 
 
132 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 I cannot weep but your tears will be flowing, 
 You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing. 
 I would not die without you at my side, love ; 
 You will not linger when I shall have died, love. 
 
 Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow. 
 
 Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow ; 
 
 Strong, swift, and fond as the words which I speak, love, 
 
 With a song on your lip, and a smile on your cheek, love. 
 
 Come, for my heart in your absence is weary ; 
 
 Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary. 
 
 Come to the arms which alone should caress thee, 
 
 Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 HENRY TIMROD. 
 
 Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air 
 Which dwells with all things fair. 
 Spring, with her golden sun and silver rain, 
 Is with us once again. 
 
 Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns 
 Its fragrant lamps, and turns 
 Into a royal court with green festoons 
 The banks of dark lagoons. 
 
 In the deep heart of every forest-tree 
 The blood is all a-glee. 
 
 And there's a look about the leafless bowers 
 As if they dreamed of flowers. 
 
 Yet still on every side we trace the hand 
 Of winter in the land, 
 
SO.VGS OF THE SOUTH. 133 
 
 Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, 
 Flushed by the season's dawn. 
 
 Or where, like those strange semblances we find 
 That age to childhood bind, 
 The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, 
 The brown of autumn corn. 
 
 As yet the turf is dark, although you know 
 That, not a span below, 
 
 A thousand germs are groping through the gloom. 
 And soon will burst their tomb. 
 
 Already, here and there, on frailest stems 
 Appears some azure gems. 
 Small as might deck, upon a gala day, 
 The forehead of a Fay. 
 
 In gardens you may note amid the dearth 
 
 The crocus breaking earth ; 
 
 And near the snow-drop's tender white and green. 
 
 The violet in its screen. 
 
 But many gleams and shadows needs must pass 
 Along the budding grass. 
 
 And weeks go by, before the enamoured South 
 Shall kiss the rose's mouth. 
 
 Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn 
 In the sweet airs of morn ; 
 One almost looks to see the ver}^ street 
 Grow purple at his feet. 
 
 At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by. 
 And brings, you know not why, 
 A feeling as when eager crowds await 
 Before a palace gate 
 
 12 
 
134 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarce would start 
 
 If, from a beech's heart, 
 
 A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, 
 
 " Behold me ! I am May !" 
 
 Ah ! who would couple thoughts of war and crime 
 
 With such a blessed time ? 
 
 Who in the west wind's aromatic breath 
 
 Could hear the call of death ? 
 
 Yet not more surely shall the spring awake 
 The voice of wood and brake. 
 Than she shall rouse, for all her tranquil charms, 
 A million men to arms. 
 
 There shall be deeper hues upon her plains 
 Than all her sunlit rains, 
 And every gladdening influence around, 
 Can summon from its ground. 
 
 Oh ! standing on this desecrated mould, 
 Methinks that I behold. 
 Lifting her bloody daisies up to God, 
 Spring, kneehng on the sod, 
 
 And calling, with the voice of all her rills. 
 Upon the ancient hills 
 
 To fall and crush the tyrants and the slaves 
 Who turn her meads to graves. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 HARK TO THE SHOUTING WIND. 
 
 HENRY TIMROD. 
 
 Hark to the shouting Wind ! 
 
 Hark to the flying Rain ! 
 And I care not though I never see 
 
 A bright blue sky again. 
 
 There are thoughts in my breast to-day 
 That are not for human speech ; 
 
 But I hear them in the driving storm, 
 And the roar upon the beach. 
 
 And oh, to be with that ship 
 
 That I watch through the blinding brine ! 
 
 Wind ! for thy sweep of land and sea ! 
 O Sea ! for a voice like thine ! 
 
 Shout on, thou pitiless Wind, 
 
 To the frightened and flying Rain ! 
 
 1 care not though I never see 
 
 A calm blue sky again. 
 
 135 
 
 ODE FOR DECORATION DAY. 
 
 HENRY TIMROD, 
 
 (Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S. C, 1867,) 
 
 Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, 
 Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause ; 
 
 Though yet no marble column craves 
 The pilgrim here to pause. 
 
 In seeds of laurel in the earth 
 
 The blossom of your fame is blown. 
 
136 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 And somewhere, waiting for its birth, 
 The shaft is in the stone ! 
 
 Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 
 
 Which keep in trust your storied tombs, 
 
 Behold ! your sisters bring their tears. 
 And these memorial blooms. 
 
 Small tributes ! but your shades will smile 
 More proudly on these wreaths to-day 
 
 Than when some cannon-moulded pile 
 Shall overlook this bay. 
 
 Stoop, angels, hither from the skies ! 
 
 There is no holier spot of ground 
 Than where defeated valor lies, 
 
 By mourning beauty crowned ! 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 HENRY TIMROD. 
 
 Some truths there be are better left unsaid ; 
 Much is there that we may not speak unblamed. 
 On words, as wings, how many joys have fled ! 
 The jealous fairies love not to be named. 
 There is an old-world tale of one whose bed 
 A genius graced, to all, save him, unknown ; 
 One day the secret passed his lips, and sped 
 As secrets speed — thenceforth he slept alone. 
 Too much, oh ! far too much is told in books ; 
 Too broad a daylight wraps us all and each. 
 Ah ! it is well that, deeper than our looks. 
 Some secrets lie beyond conjecture's reach. 
 Ah ! it is well that in the soul are nooks 
 That will not open to the keys of speech. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 137 
 
 THE COTTON BOLL.* 
 
 HENRY TIMROD. 
 
 While I recline 
 
 At ease beneath 
 
 This immemorial pine, 
 
 Small sphere ! 
 
 (By dusky fingers brought this morning here 
 
 And shown with boastful smiles), 
 
 I turn thy cloven sheath. 
 
 Through which the soft white fibres peer, 
 
 That, with their gossamer bands. 
 
 Unite, like love, the sea-divided lands, 
 
 And slowly, thread by thread, 
 
 Draw forth the folded strands. 
 
 Than which the trembling line, 
 
 By whose frail help yon startled spider fled 
 
 Down the tall spear-grass from its swinging bed, 
 
 Is scarce more fine ; 
 
 And as the tangled skein 
 
 Unravels in my hands, 
 
 Betwixt me and the noon-day light 
 
 A veil seems lifted, and for miles and miles 
 
 The landscape broadens on my sight. 
 
 As, in the little boll, there lurked a spell 
 
 Like that which, in the ocean shell. 
 
 With mystic sound, 
 
 Breaks down the narrow walls that hem us round. 
 
 And turns some city here 
 
 Into the restless main. 
 
 With all his capes and isles ! 
 
 * The boll is the seed-vessel of the cotton. 
 12* 
 
138 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Yonder bird, 
 
 Which floats, as if at rest. 
 
 In those blue tracts above the thunder, where 
 
 No vapors cloud the stainless air, 
 
 And never sound is heard. 
 
 Unless at such rare time 
 
 When, from the City of the Blest, 
 
 Rings down some golden chime, 
 
 Sees not from his high place 
 
 So vast a cirque of summer space 
 
 As widens round me in one mighty field, 
 
 Which, rimmed by seas and sands, 
 
 Doth hail its earliest daylight in the beams 
 
 Of gray Atlantic dawns ; 
 
 And broad as realms made up of many lands. 
 
 Is lost afar 
 
 Behind the crimson hill and purple lawns 
 
 Of sunset, among plains which roll their streams 
 
 Against the Evening Star ! 
 
 And lo ! 
 
 To the remotest point of sight. 
 
 Although I gaze upon no waste of snow. 
 
 The endless field is white ; 
 
 And the whole landscape glows, 
 
 For many a shining league away. 
 
 With such accumulated light 
 
 As Polar lands would flash beneath a tropic day ! 
 
 Nor lack there (for the vision grows. 
 
 And the small charm within my hands — 
 
 More potent even than the fabled one, 
 
 Which oped whatever golden mystery 
 
 Lay hid in fairy wood or magic vale, 
 
 The curious ointment of the Arabian tale — 
 
 Beyond all mortal sense 
 
 Doth stretch my sight's horizon, and I see. 
 
 Beneath its simple influence, 
 
SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 139 
 
 As if, with Uriel' s"^ crown, 
 
 I stood in some great temple of the Sun. 
 
 And looked, as Uriel, down !) 
 
 Nor lack there pastures rich and fields all green 
 
 With all the common gifts of God, 
 
 For temperate airs and torrid sheen 
 
 Weave Edens of the sod ; 
 
 Through lands which look one sea of billowy gold 
 
 Broad rivers wind their devious ways ; 
 
 A hundred isles in their embraces fold 
 
 A hundred luminous bays ; 
 
 And through yon purple haze 
 
 Vast mountains lift their plumed peaks, cloud-crowned 
 
 And, save where up their sides the ploughman creeps, 
 
 An unhewn forest girds them grandly round. 
 
 In whose dark shades a future navy sleeps ! 
 
 Ye Stars, which, though unseen, yet with me gaze 
 
 Upon this loveliest fragment of the earth ! 
 
 Thou Sun, that kindlest all thy gentlest rays 
 
 Above it, as to light a favorite hearth ! 
 
 Ye Clouds, that in your temples in the West 
 
 See nothing brighter than the humblest flowers ! 
 
 And you, ye Winds, that on the ocean's breast 
 
 Are kissed to coolness ere ye reach its bowers ! 
 
 Bear witness with me in my song of praise, 
 
 And tell the world that, since the world began, 
 
 No fairer land hath fired a poet's lays, 
 
 Or given a home to man. 
 
 But these are charms already widely blown ! 
 His be the meed whose pencil's trace 
 
 ■* Uriel, " God's Light," — the archangel, 
 
 " One of the seven 
 Who in God's presence, nearest to His throne. 
 Stand ready at command." 
 
 Milton, Paradise Lost. 
 
I40 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Hath touched our very swamps with grace, 
 And round whose tuneful way- 
 All Southern laurels bloom : 
 The Poet of " The Woodlands" unto whom 
 Alike are known 
 
 The flute' s low breathing and the trumpet' s tone, 
 And the soft west wind's sighs ; 
 But who shall utter all the debt, 
 O Land wherein all powers are met 
 That bind a people's heart, 
 The world doth owe thee at this day, 
 And which it never can repay, 
 Yet scarcely deigns to own ! 
 Where sleeps the poet who shall fitly sing 
 The source wherefrom doth spring 
 That mighty commerce which, confined 
 To the mean channels of no selfish mart. 
 Goes out to every shore 
 
 Of this broad earth, and throngs the sea with ships 
 That bear no thunders ; hushes hungry lips 
 In alien lands ; 
 
 Joins with a delicate web remotest strands ; 
 And gladdening rich and poor, 
 Doth gild Parisian domes. 
 Or feed the cottage smoke of English homes. 
 And only bounds its blessings by mankind ! 
 In offices like these, thy mission lies, 
 My country ! and it shall not end 
 As long as rain shall fall and Heaven bend 
 In blue above thee ; though thy foes be hard 
 And cruel as their weapons, it shall guard 
 Thy hearth-stones as a bulwark ; make thee great 
 In white and bloodless state ; 
 And haply, as the years increase — 
 Still working through its humbler reach 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 With that large wisdom which the ages teach — 
 Revive the half-dead dream of universal peace ! 
 
 As men who labor in that mine 
 
 Of Cornwall, hollowed out beneath the bed 
 
 Of ocean, when a storm rolls overhead, 
 
 Hear the dull booming of the world of brine 
 
 Above them, and a mighty muffled roar 
 
 Of winds and waters, yet toil calmly on. 
 
 And split the rocks, and pile the massive ore, 
 
 Or carve a niche, or shape the arched roof ; 
 
 So I, as calmly, weave my woof 
 
 Of song, chanting the days to come, 
 
 Unsilenced, though the quiet summer air 
 
 Stirs with the bruit of battles, and each dawn 
 
 Wakes from its starry silence to the hour 
 
 Of many gathering armies. Still, 
 
 In that we sometimes hear. 
 
 Upon the northern winds, the voice of woe 
 
 Not wholly drowned in triumph, though I know 
 
 The end must crown us, and a few brief years 
 
 Dry all our tears, 
 
 I may not sing too gladly. To thy will, 
 
 Resigned, O Lord ! we all forget 
 
 That there is much even victory must regret. 
 
 And, therefore, not too long 
 
 From the great burthen of our country's wrong 
 
 Delay our just release ! 
 
 And if it may be, save 
 
 These sacred fields of peace 
 
 From stain of patriot or of hostile blood ! 
 
 Oh, help us, Lord ! to roll the crimson flood 
 
 Back on its course, and, while our banners wing 
 
 Northward, strike with us ! till the Goth shall cling 
 
 To his own blasted altar-stones, and crave 
 
 Mercy ; and we shall grant it, and dictate 
 
 141 
 
142 
 
 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 The lenient future of his fate 
 
 There, where some rotting ships and crumbhng quays 
 
 Shall one day mark the Port which ruled the Western seas, 
 
 ONLY ONE. 
 
 MRS. LIDE MERIWETHER. 
 
 " Only one !" the winds are moaning, 
 
 "Only one !" t^e woodlands sigh, 
 " Only one !" the waves intoning, 
 
 " Only one !" the stars reply : 
 Easter lilies pale and shiver 
 
 In the struggling April sun. 
 Pallid moonbeams wane and quiver, 
 
 Whispering sadly — " Only one !" 
 
 Every bush and tree is swaying 
 
 With the sorrow-laden tone, 
 Every bird and bee is saying, 
 
 " One is here — and one is gone !" 
 Every running stream is telling 
 
 Out its weary monotone. 
 Every bird to blossom swelling. 
 
 Mutely answers — " Only one !" 
 
 Every mission meek and lowly. 
 
 Where two wrought in days of yore, 
 Every purpose high and holy. 
 
 Mourns its helper — gone before ; 
 Every pure and fair creation 
 
 In a poet's brain begun. 
 Lacks its soul and inspiration. 
 
 Droops, and falters — " Only one !" 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 143 
 
 Faint and far, a pleading whisper 
 
 Blends with bird, and breeze, and bee, — 
 Shall I go to you, my sister, 
 
 Since you come not back to me ? 
 Will the great and loving Giver 
 
 Grant us choicest benison. 
 And beyond the shining river 
 
 Blend our spirits — only one ? 
 
 MEMORIES. 
 
 JOHN ESTEN COOKE. 
 
 The flush of sunset dies 
 Far on ancestral trees ; 
 On the bright-booted bees, 
 On cattle-dotted leas ! 
 
 And a mist is in my eyes. 
 For in a stranger land 
 Halts the quick-running sand, 
 Shaken by no dear hand ! 
 
 How plain the flowering grass, 
 The sunset-flooded door ! 
 I hear the river's roar 
 Say clearly, "Nevermore." 
 
 I see cloud-shadows pass 
 Over my mountain meres ; 
 Gone are the rose-bright years, 
 Drowned in a flood of tears. 
 
144 SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 IN THE WHEAT-FIELD. 
 
 PAUL H. HAYNE. 
 
 When the lids of the virgin Dawn unclose, 
 
 When the earth is fair and the heavens are calm, 
 And the early breath of the wakening rose 
 
 Floats on the air in balm, 
 I stand breast-high in the pearly wheat 
 
 That ripples and thrills to a sportive breeze, 
 Borne over the field with its Hermes feet, 
 
 And its subtle odor of southern seas ; 
 While out of the infinite azure deep 
 The flashing wings of the swallows sweep. 
 Buoyant and beautiful, wild and fleet. 
 Over the waves of the whispering wheat. 
 
 Aurora faints in the fulgent fire 
 
 Of the Monarch of Morning' s bright embrace, 
 And the summer day climbs higher and higher 
 
 Up the cerulean space ; 
 The pearl-tints fade from the radiant grain, 
 
 And the sportive breeze of the ocean dies, 
 And soon in the noontide's soundless rain 
 
 The fields seem graced by a million eyes ; 
 Each grain with a glance from its lidded fold 
 As bright as a gnome's in his mine of gold. 
 While the slumb'rous glamour of beam and heat 
 Glides over and under the windless wheat. 
 
 Yet the languid spirit of lazy Noon, 
 
 With its minor and Morphean music rife. 
 
 Is pulsing in low, voluptuous tune 
 With summer's lust of life. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 145 
 
 Hark ! to the droning of drowsy wings, 
 
 To the honey bees as they go and come, 
 To the ' ' boomer' ' scarce rounding his sultry rings. 
 
 The gnat's small horn and the beetle's hum ; 
 And hark to the locust ! — noon's one shrill song. 
 Like the tingling steel of an elfin gong, 
 Grows lower through quavers of long retreat 
 To swoon on the dazzled and distant wheat. 
 
 Now Day declines ! and his shafts of might 
 
 Are sheathed in a quiver of opal haze ; 
 Still thro' the chastened, but magic light, 
 
 What sunset grandeurs blaze ! 
 For the sky, in its mellowed luster, seems 
 
 Like the realm of a master poet's mind, — 
 A shifting kingdom of splendid dreams, — 
 
 With fuller and fairer truths behind ; 
 And the changeful colors that blend or part. 
 Ebb hke the tides of a living heart. 
 As the splendor melts and the shadows meet, 
 And the tresses of Twilight trail over the wheat. 
 
 Thus Eve creeps slowly and slyly down. 
 
 And the gurgUng notes of the swallow cease. 
 They flicker aloft through the foliage brown, 
 
 In the ancient vesper peace : 
 But a step like the step of a conscious fawn 
 
 Is stealing — with many a pause — this way, 
 Till the hand of my Love through mine is drawn, 
 
 Her heart on mine, in the tender ray ; 
 O hand of the lily, O heart of truth, 
 O Love, thou art faithful and fond as Ruth ; 
 But I am the gleaner — of kisses — Sweet, 
 While the starlight dawns on the dimpling wheat ! 
 G k 13 
 
146 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 THE BONNY BROWN HAND. 
 
 PAUL- H. HAYNE 
 
 Oh, drearily, how drearily, the sombre eve comes down ! 
 
 And wearily, how wearily, the seaward breezes blow ! 
 But place your httle hand in mine — so dainty, yet so brown ! 
 For household toil hath worn away its rosy-tinted snow : 
 But I fold it, wife, the nearer, 
 And I feel, my love, 'tis dearer 
 Than all dear things of earth. 
 As I watch the pensive gloaming, 
 And my wild thoughts cease from roaming. 
 And birdlike furl their pinions close beside our peaceful 
 hearth : 
 Then rest your little hand in mine, while twihght shim- 
 mers down, — 
 That little hand, that fervent hand, that hand of bonny 
 brown, — 
 The hand that holds an honest heart, and rules a happy 
 hearth. 
 
 Oh, merrily, how merrily, our children's voices rise ! 
 
 And cheerily, how cheerily, their tiny footsteps fall ! 
 But, hand, you must not stir awhile, for there our nestling 
 lies. 
 Snug in the cradle at your side, the loveliest far of all ; 
 And she looks so arch and airy. 
 So softly pure a fairy, — 
 She scarce seems bound to earth ; 
 And her dimpled mouth keeps smiling, 
 As at some child fay's beguiling, 
 Who flies from Ariel realms to light her slumbers on the 
 hearth. 
 Ha, little hand, you yearn to move, and smooth the 
 bright locks down ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 147 
 
 But, little hand, — but, trembling hand, — but, hand of 
 bonny brown. 
 Stay, stay with me ! — she will not flee, our birdling on the 
 hearth. 
 
 Oh, flittingly, how flittingly, the parlor shadows thrill. 
 As wittingly, half wittingly, they seem to pulse and 
 pass ! 
 And solemn sounds are on the wind that sweeps the 
 haunted hill, 
 And murmurs of a ghostly breath from out the grave- 
 yard grass. 
 Let me feel your glowing fingers 
 In a clasp that warms and lingers 
 With the full, fond love of earth. 
 Till the joy of love's completeness 
 In this flush of fireside sweetness, 
 Shall brim our hearts with spirit-wine, outpoured beside 
 the hearth. 
 So steal your little hand in mine, while twilight falters 
 
 down, — 
 That little hand, that fervent hand, that hand of bonny 
 brown, — 
 The hand which points the path to heaven, yet makes a 
 heaven of earth. 
 
 DREAMING IN THE TRENCHES. 
 
 WILLIAM GORDON MCCABE. 
 
 I PICTURE her there in the quaint old room. 
 When the fading firelight starts and falls. 
 
 Alone in the twilight's tender gloom 
 
 With the shadows that dance on the dim-lit walls. 
 
148 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Alone, while those faces look silently down 
 From their antique frames in a grim repose, — 
 
 Slight scholarly Ralph in his Oxford gown. 
 And stout Sir Alan, who died for Montrose. 
 
 There are gallants gay in crimson and gold. 
 There are smiling beauties in powdered hair. 
 
 But she sits there, fairer a thousand-fold, 
 
 Leaning dreamily back in her low arm-chair. 
 
 And the roseate shadows of fading light, 
 Softly clear, steal over the sweet young face, 
 
 Where a woman's tenderness blends to-night 
 With the guileless pride of a haughty race. 
 
 Her hands lie clasped in a listless way 
 
 On the old romance — which she holds on her knee 
 Of Tristrajn, the bravest of knights in the fray, 
 
 And Iseult, who waits by the sounding sea. 
 
 And her proud, dark eyes wear a softened look. 
 As she watches the dying embers fall, — 
 
 Perhaps she dreams of the knight in the book. 
 Perhaps of the pictures that smile on the wall. 
 
 What fancies, I wonder, are thronging her brain. 
 For her cheeks flush warm with a crimson glow ! 
 
 Perhaps — Ah ! me, how foolish and vain ! 
 But I'd give my life to believe it so. 
 
 Well, whether I ever march home again 
 To offer my love and a stainless name, 
 
 Or whether I die at the head of my men, 
 I'll be true to the end all the same. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 149 
 
 TWO PICTURES. 
 
 MRS. MARY BAYARD CLARKE. 
 
 I AM watching for my ship, which is saiHng o'er time's sea, 
 And wondrous are the treasures she is bringing home to 
 
 me ; 
 For the richest of the cargoes that cross the Indian main 
 Are nothing to the treasures of my castles built in Spain. 
 From them my ship is laden, and is bringing in her hold 
 Imagination's spices, frankincense, and myrrh, and gold ; 
 Her sails are woven fancies, and bright wishes twine each 
 
 rope, 
 Though calms delay her passage, her helm is held by 
 
 Hope ; 
 I see her in the distance with her snowy sails all set. 
 And am counting on the riches she'll surely bring me yet. 
 
 II. 
 
 The tide of life is ebbing, yet my ship is still at sea, 
 I'm watching now for others, for she'll never land for me. 
 Hope gave the helm to Duty when the barque was tempest- 
 tost. 
 And amid life's shoals and breakers the vessel nearly lost. 
 The sails are gray and ashen, every rope is worn and thin, 
 And she has no spicy cargo her shattered hold within. 
 And ruined are the castles that once I built in Spain, 
 And I can load no vessels at their golden gates again. 
 Yet in the hazy distance a coming sail I spy. 
 And I'm watching for my ship, and shall watch until I die ; 
 For though she brings no riches, frankincense, or myrrh, 
 
 or gold, 
 With Mother-Love she' s laden as full as she can hold. 
 13* 
 
150 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 GUY DE MAYNE. 
 
 SUSAN ARCHER WEISS. 
 
 From the lofty niche within the wall, 
 Here in the dusky, time-worn hall. 
 
 Here, away in a foreign land, 
 Thou lookest downward, calm and grave, 
 In corselet bright, and helm, and glaive, 
 
 And a single gem on thy hand ; 
 And glancing up by the embers' flame 
 
 In ancient cyphers, worn with age. 
 
 Such as cumber a missal's page, — 
 Quaintly carved on the ebon frame 
 Slowly again I read thy name, — 
 
 ' ' Guy de Mayne /' ' 
 
 I know it not, nor who thou wert, 
 
 It is not on tradition's page. 
 Nor yet thy lineage, or degree. 
 Nor what thy history may be ; 
 All are ahke unknown to me, — 
 
 Vanished things of another age. 
 Yet while thy race hath seen decay, 
 And their very name hath passed away, — 
 
 For power is fleeting and wealth is vain, — 
 Upon thy face I look to-day. 
 Seeming here in the firelight's ray 
 As in those ages past away. 
 
 And musingly read o'er again 
 
 ' ' Guy de Mayne /' ' 
 
 Methinks that never a warrior's soul 
 
 Hath looked with a prouder gaze than thine 
 That never a poet's brow hath worn 
 So deep a sadness, so still a scorn, 
 As from those eyes outshine : 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 151 
 
 And thy brow is fair as the winter snow, — 
 Though the bearded face be bronzed below, — 
 
 Scarred and bronzed to a tawny stain, 
 Telling, in record plain and true, 
 Of many a toil thou hast passed through, 
 
 Of storm and battle, of sun and rain ; 
 For sure am I, by that corselet bright, 
 And those haughty eyes' unclouded light. 
 Thou wert no dainty carpet-knight, 
 
 Guy de Mayne ! 
 
 I would that those silent hps might tell 
 Of the deeds of daring thy hand hath done ; 
 That I might read in those earnest eyes, 
 Where now the spirit in stillness lies. 
 How fierce the fury that in them shone 
 When thou wert rushing to battle on. 
 Waving on high the gleaming brand, 
 Saxon and Norman, hand to hand ! 
 Methinks e'en I could danger dare 
 
 And forth to battle as fearless ride. 
 Were I some dame of the olden time 
 
 And thou a brother by my side, 
 
 Giiy de Mayne / 
 
 And when thou didst a-wooing go, 
 
 I know the change upon that face, 
 
 The softened mien, the knightly grace, 
 The tender accents, breathing low. 
 And didst thou wed some lady fair, 
 
 Or prove her falsehood's evil power ? 
 Or fall in the flush of thy young renown, 
 
 Or die in peaceful bower ? 
 'Tis fancy all, and idle thought, 
 
 And well I know such dreams are vain ; 
 
 Yet in my heart and in my brain, 
 Where many a waking dream is wrought, 
 
152 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 That warrior-mien and poet-glance 
 Have woven a spell of strange romance ; 
 And many an hour, as all alone 
 I muse before the broad hearthstone, 
 I upward glance, and start to see 
 That form of knightly chivalry ; 
 Then, turning, murmur with a sigh, 
 " Oh, for the glorious days gone by, — 
 
 The proud and stirring days of old. 
 When knights were brave and ladies fair. 
 And hearts and hands were strong to dare, 
 
 As in the olden records told : 
 That they and thou could come again, 
 
 Guy de Mayne /' * 
 
 ENDYMION. 
 
 SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY WEISS. 
 
 I STARTED from a troubled dream. 
 The fancy of a summer night, 
 
 As through my open window shone 
 A broad and silver light. 
 
 It was the queenly orb of night, 
 It was the slow uprising moon. 
 
 Now waxing with a queenly grace 
 Unto her highest noon. 
 
 And slowly crept her silver beam 
 Upon my brow, across my breast ; 
 
 I almost felt her fingers cold 
 Upon my forehead pressed. 
 
 I almost deemed her chilly touch 
 Had rippled o'er my loosened hair. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 153 
 
 As on the sultry summer night 
 Came in the balmy air. 
 
 And musing, to myself I said, 
 
 As fair the silver circle shone, 
 " 'Twas thus, on such a summer night, 
 
 She woke Endymion." 
 
 I watched her as she higher rose. 
 
 Until her silver disk was gone, 
 And turning on my pillow, dreamed 
 
 Of young Endymion. 
 
 And never till that summer night, 
 While dreaming thus, so fancy free. 
 
 Had that poetic legend seemed 
 So beautiful to me. 
 
 I saw the young Endymion 
 
 Asleep upon the mountain laid, 
 While hghtly o' er his cheek and brow 
 
 The clustering ringlets strayed. 
 
 I saw the beauteous goddess stand 
 Half shrinking by the sleeper's side, 
 
 And all subdued, as only love 
 Could tame her maiden pride. 
 
 So timid proud she seemed to be, 
 
 So bashful in her queenly grace, 
 I felt my own cheek blush and burn 
 
 While gazing in her face. 
 
 I saw her forward slowly bend ; 
 
 I trembled for the goddess' sake, 
 Lest, roused by some magnetic thrill, 
 
 The sleeper should awake. 
 
154 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 I saw her touch the marble brow, 
 I saw her press the parted hps, 
 
 And, starting from my dream, I woke, 
 As in the moon's edipse. 
 
 Yet met I, as a meteor's flash, 
 
 The large eyes of the wondering boy, 
 
 Illumed as with a sudden bliss, 
 A rapture-thrill of joy. 
 
 And musing, to myself I said. 
 As slowly flushed the rosy dawn, 
 
 ' ' There is no sweeter dream than that 
 Of young Endymion." 
 
 THE STAB. 
 
 WILL WALLACE HARNEY. 
 
 On the road, the lonely road. 
 
 Under the cold, white moon. 
 Under the ragged trees, he strode ; 
 He whistled and shifted his heavy load, — 
 
 Whistled a foolish tune. 
 
 There was a step, timed with his own, 
 
 A figure that stooped and bowed ; 
 A cold, white blade that gleamed and shone, 
 Like a splinter of daylight downward thrown ; 
 
 And the moon went behind a cloud. 
 
 But the moon came out so broad and good. 
 
 The barn-cock woke and crowed ; 
 Then roughed his feathers in drowsy mood ; 
 And the brown owl called to his mate in the wood 
 
 That a dead man lay on the road. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 155 
 
 ELEVEN YEARS AGO. 
 
 JULIA BACON. 
 
 Eleven years ago, Janet, 
 
 Eleven years ago, 
 I was a merry-hearted lass, 
 
 No sorrow did I know. 
 My life was one bright summer dream. 
 
 And Robin was my beau ; 
 Say, do you mind the time, Janet, 
 
 Eleven years ago ? 
 
 I rambled in the wood, Janet, 
 
 To cull the flowers fair, 
 For well I knew who liked to see 
 
 Them braided in my hair. 
 I sat beside the tinkling rill. 
 
 Its gentle, soothing flow 
 Spoke to my soul of him, Janet, 
 
 Eleven years ago. 
 
 The birds that trill' d their lays, Janet, 
 
 Sang sweetly to my ear. 
 Of coming joys and happiness, 
 
 Unclouded by a fear ; 
 And echo caught the wild refrain ; 
 
 'Twas in my heart I know. 
 But still the song was sweet, Janet, 
 
 Eleven years ago. 
 
 I loved the birds and brooks, Janet, 
 
 And loved young Robin, too ; 
 I loved his cheerful, handsome face. 
 
 And tender eyes of blue ; 
 
156 SOATGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 And wavy locks and sunny smile, 
 And voice so soft and low, 
 
 When telling me his love, Janet, 
 Eleven years ago. 
 
 Think you his words were true, Janet ? 
 
 And meant he what he said, 
 That no one else he'd ever love. 
 
 And no one else he' d wed ? 
 That I was all the world to him, 
 
 Because he loved me so ? 
 Was he in earnest then, Janet, 
 
 Eleven years ago ? 
 
 Oh, yes, for he was true, Janet, 
 
 And honest, proud, aud brave ; 
 Ah, me ! perhaps he's sleeping now, 
 
 Cold in a distant grave. 
 He left us for the western land 
 
 When roses were in blow. 
 To seek his fortune there, Janet, 
 
 Eleven years ago. 
 
 He said he'd make a home, Janet, 
 
 A home for him and me, 
 An humble one ; but, blest with love, 
 
 It would a palace be ; 
 Where forest minstrels music make 
 
 And wild azaleas grow ; 
 He promised this and more, Janet, 
 
 Eleven years ago. 
 
 For him I'm waiting still, Janet, 
 
 But fear I wait in vain ; 
 He's either dead or loves me not. 
 
 And ne'er will come again. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 No letters from him new at all, 
 What can it mean ? Heigh-ho ! 
 
 Minds he the vows we pledged, Janet, 
 Eleven years ago ? 
 
 Hark ! rapping loud, I hear, Janet, 
 
 Somebody at the door, 
 And creaking boots with heavy tread 
 
 Upon the sanded floor. 
 I see a bearded, sunburnt man, 
 
 His face I do not know, 
 Would 'twere the one I loved, Janet, 
 
 Eleven years ago. 
 
 He smiles — 'tis Robin ! Oh, Janet ! 
 
 He calls me by my name. 
 And folds me in his loving arms. 
 
 And tells me he's the same. 
 He's changed in looks, but that is all, 
 
 Not changed in heart, oh, no ; 
 He loves me as he did, Janet, 
 
 Eleven years ago. 
 
 157 
 
 WE MET. 
 
 LAURA GWYN. 
 
 We met in the month of roses. 
 
 When the sweet, blind god went by, 
 And he held in his hand a jewel 
 
 That we coveted, you and I. 
 True Love was the name of the treasure. 
 
 And we thought, if 'twere only ours. 
 The June days would last forever, 
 
 And the breath of the sweet June flowers. 
 14 
 
158 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 But the gift that the bhnd god gave us 
 
 Was a fair false gem, you know, 
 And we grieved for a httle season 
 
 To think he had cheated us so. 
 We wasted our hearts with sighing, 
 
 We darkened our youth with wrong, 
 And we walked through the pleasant June-time 
 
 Unmindful of flowers or song. 
 
 But now that the years are many 
 
 That have buried our bright June day, 
 And with it our fair, false jewel, 
 
 And with it our roses gay, 
 We smile, and can hardly remember 
 
 Whether Love's hair, so bright. 
 Was the color of gleaming amber 
 
 Or the ebony hue of night. 
 
 Old Time with his wand hath touched us 
 
 As he wandered cheerily by. 
 And we draw from our hearts' lost June-time 
 
 A song instead of a sigh. 
 We forget ; we join hands lightly, 
 
 We meet as we met before. 
 We gather the new-come roses 
 
 And think of the past no more. 
 
 So with Love we will wage no quarrel, 
 
 In our hearts we can softly say, 
 " It is best in the end that he gave us 
 
 The false fair gem that day. ' ' 
 And we think we are something wiser, 
 
 For now we begin to agree, 
 That if Love is a cunning miser, 
 
 Sweet Friendship his heir may be. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 159 
 
 TO MARY. 
 
 JOHN ARCHER CLARKE. 
 
 Absent from thee, the hours roll by- 
 Like wearied camels on their march 
 
 Across great deserts dusty and dry 
 
 From winds that wither, suns that parch : 
 
 In dreams, 'tis true, we fondly meet ; 
 Thy gentle hand I sometimes press, 
 
 And what to me is far more sweet, 
 I melt in thy soft and pure caress. 
 
 But this is dreaming, and I wake 
 
 To find myself deceived — deluded ; 
 To see these bright imaginings break 
 
 Away, as though they had intruded ; 
 Like foreign birds I've often seen, 
 
 While wending on their journeys long, 
 Who stop awhile on tree and green. 
 
 Then seek their native land of song. 
 
 Absent from thee, I would that I 
 
 In thy young presence, by thy side. 
 Not knowing grief or pain or sigh. 
 
 Could engage thy heart, thy hope, thy pride. 
 With thee forever — my companion thou — 
 
 Thine to love — thy love requite — 
 To keep inviolate our mutual vow. 
 
 Would be my fondest, chief dehght. 
 
 I never loved till when my gaze 
 
 Met thine so tranquil, sweet, and pure ; 
 
 Ah, me ! I thought to spend my days 
 With her were happiness to secure. 
 
l6o SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Thy face and form ! they seemed to me 
 Ideal beauty, such as mine eye 
 
 Had ne'er before been taught to see, — 
 The reaUty of art and poetry. 
 
 Then we met — thy form and face 
 
 Like Hebe's chiselled, but more fair, 
 Became forgot in the purer grace 
 
 Of mind and heart — those virtues rare. 
 I felt I loved — my bosom thrilled ; 
 
 My thoughts arose to endless joy ; 
 My reveries now seemed all fulfilled. 
 
 The dreams I've had since when a boy. 
 
 Canst thou repel me, then, when I 
 
 Shall ask the favor of thy hand ; 
 Or let fond yes be thy reply 
 
 And make me yours to love — command ? 
 To live with thee — enjoy through time 
 
 A summer time, rose-clad and bright, 
 Like that we read in poet's rhyme, 
 
 An Aidenn world — all, all, delight ! 
 
 MY CASTLE. 
 
 S. NEWTON BERRYHILL. 
 
 They do not know who sneer at me because I'm poor and 
 
 lame. 
 And, round my brow has never twined the laurel wreath 
 
 of fame, — 
 They do not know that I possess a castle old and grand. 
 With many an acre broad attached of fair and fertile land ; 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. l6l 
 
 With hills and dales, and lakes and streams, and fields of 
 
 waving grain, 
 And snowy flocks, and lowing herds, that browse upon the 
 
 plain. 
 In sooth, it is a good demesne — how would my scorners 
 
 stare, 
 Could they behold the splendors of my castle in the air ! 
 
 The room in which I'm sitting now is smoky, bare, and 
 
 cold. 
 But I have gorgeous, stately chambers in my palace old. 
 Rich paintings, by the grand old masters, hang upon the 
 
 wall, 
 And marble busts and statues stand around the spacious 
 
 hall. 
 A chandelier of silver pure, and golden lamps illume, 
 With rosy lights, on festal nights, the great reception 
 
 room, 
 When wisdom, genius, beauty, wit, are all assembled 
 
 there. 
 And strains of sweetest music fill my Castle in the Air. 
 
 About the castle grounds ten thousand kinds of flowers 
 
 bloom. 
 And freight each passing zephyr with a load of sweet 
 
 perfume. 
 Thick clumps of green umbrageous trees afford a cool 
 
 retreat, 
 Where oft I steal me, when the sun pours down his 
 
 scorching heat, 
 And there, upon a mossy bank, recline the livelong day. 
 And watch the murmuring fountains in their marble basin 
 
 play; 
 Or listen to the song of birds, with plumage bright and 
 
 rare. 
 Which flit among the trees around my Castle in the 
 
 Air. 
 / 14* 
 
1 62 SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Sometimes the mistress of my castle sits beside me there, 
 With dark-blue eyes so full of love, and sunny silken hair, 
 With broad, fair, classic brow, where genius sheds his 
 
 purest ray. 
 And little dimpled rosy mouth, where smiles forever play. 
 Ah ! she is very dear to me ; her maiden heart alone 
 Returned my soul's deep love, and beat responsive to my 
 
 own ; 
 And I chose her for my spirit-bride, — this maiden young 
 
 and fair, — 
 And now she reigns sole mistress of my Castle in the 
 
 Air. 
 
 The banks may break and stocks may fall, the Croesus 
 
 of to-day 
 May see to-morrow all his wealth, like snow, dissolve 
 
 away. 
 And th' auctioneer, at panic price, to the highest bidder 
 
 sell 
 His marble home, in which a king might well be proud to 
 
 dwell. 
 But in my castle in the air I have a sure estate. 
 No panic, with its hydra-head, can e'er depreciate. 
 No hard-faced sheriff dares to levy execution there, 
 For universal law exempts a Castle in the Air. 
 
 THE THANE'S SAYING. 
 
 WILLIAM PRESTON JOHNSTON. 
 
 Out of the stress and the strain 
 Of a stormy night. 
 
 Out of the cold and the rain 
 Into the Hght 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 163 
 
 Of Earth's Walhalla. 
 
 Cometh the swallow. 
 Oh, dreary flight ! 
 The blast through the open casement flings 
 The Httle bird with its weary wings. 
 
 Out of the darkness he came 
 
 To this banquet hall, 
 Where the torches all aflame 
 Flare on the wall ; 
 And ribald laughter 
 Shaketh the rafter. 
 
 And jest and brawl 
 And the wine-cup and wassail wax high ; 
 Whither away shall the small bird fly ? 
 
 Dazed by the glow and the glare. 
 
 And the stifling smoke 
 Of torch and cresset that flare, 
 And smouldering oak 
 Wildly he flieth. 
 Faintly he crieth. 
 Till all the folk 
 Look to behold what the end shall be 
 Of this piteous birdling's tragedy. 
 
 But out through a window wide 
 
 Of the noisy room. 
 The tired pinions swiftly glide 
 Into the gloom ; 
 So no man knoweth 
 Whither he goeth 
 
 Beyond the tomb. 
 Here the soul fluttereth, its past forgot, 
 And whither it soareth, it seeth not. 
 
1 64 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 THE MONEYLESS MAN. 
 
 HENRY T. STANTON. 
 
 Is there no secret place on the face of the earth 
 Where charity dwelleth, where virtue has birth ? 
 Where bosoms in mercy and kindness will heave, 
 When the poor and the wretched shall ask and receive ? 
 Is there no place at all, where a knock from the poor 
 Will bring a kind angel to open the door ? 
 Ah ! search the wide world wherever you can. 
 There is no open door for a moneyless man ! 
 
 Go, look in yon hall where the chandelier's light 
 Drives off with its splendor the darkness of night, 
 Where the rich-hanging velvet in shadowy fold 
 Sweeps gracefully down with its trimmings of gold ; 
 And the mirrors of silver take up and renew 
 In long, lighted vistas the 'wildering view : 
 Go there, at the banquet, and find, if you can, 
 A welcoming smile for a moneyless man ! 
 
 Go, look in yon church of the cloud-reaching spire. 
 Which gives to the sun his same look of red fire, 
 Where the arches and columns are gorgeous within. 
 And the walls seem as pure as a soul without sin ; 
 Walk down the long aisles, see the rich and the great 
 In the pomp and the pride of their worldly estate ; 
 Walk down in your patches, and find, if you can, 
 Who opens a pew to a moneyless man ! 
 
 Go, look in the banks, where Mammon has told 
 His hundreds and thousands of silver and gold ; 
 Where, safe from the hands of the starving and poor, 
 Lies pile upon pile of the glittering ore ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 1 65 
 
 Walk up to their counters ; ah ! there you may stay, 
 'Till your limbs shall grow old, 'till your hairs grow gray, 
 And you'll find at the banks not one of the clan 
 With money to lend to a moneyless man ! 
 
 Go, look to yon judge, in his dark-flowing gown, 
 With the scales wherein law weigheth equity down ; 
 Where he frowns on the weak and smiles on the strong, 
 And punishes right while he justifies wrong ; 
 Where juries their lips to the Bible have laid, 
 To render a verdict they've already made : 
 Go there, in the court-room, and find, if you can, 
 Any law for the cause of a moneyless man ! 
 
 Then go to your hovel, no raven has fed 
 
 The wife who has suffered too long for her bread ; 
 
 Kneel down by her pallet, and kiss the death-frost 
 
 From the lips of the angel your poverty lost : 
 
 Then turn, in your agony, upward to God, 
 
 And bless, while it smites you, the chastening rod ; 
 
 And you'll find, at the end of your life's little span. 
 
 There's a welcome above for a moneyless man ! 
 
 DIXIE. 
 
 FANNIE DOWNING. 
 
 Created by a nation's glee. 
 With jest and song and revelry. 
 We sang it in our early pride 
 Throughout our Southern borders wide ; 
 While from ten thousand throats rang out 
 A promise in one glorious shout, 
 " To live or die for Dixie !" 
 
1 66 SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 How well that promise was redeemed 
 Is witnessed by each field where gleamed 
 Victorious like the crest of Mars, — 
 The banner of the Cross and Stars ; 
 The cannon lay our warriors low, 
 We fill the ranks, and onward go, 
 " To live or die for Dixie !" 
 
 To die for Dixie ! Oh, how blessed 
 Are those who early went to rest. 
 Nor knew the future's awful store. 
 But deemed the cause they fought for sure 
 As heaven itself ; and so laid down 
 The cross of earth for glory's crown, 
 And nobly died for Dixie. 
 
 To live for Dixie ! Harder part ! 
 To stay the hand, to still the heart, 
 To seal the lips, enshroud the past, 
 To have no future — all o'ercast ; 
 To knit life's broken threads again. 
 And keep her mem'ry pure from stain, 
 This is to live for Dixie ! 
 
 Beloved land ! beloved song ! 
 Your thrilling power shall last as long — 
 Enshrined within each Southern soul — 
 As Time's eternal ages roll : 
 Made holier by the test of years, 
 Baptized with our country's tears, — 
 God and the right for Dixie ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 167 
 
 THE LESSON OF THE LEAF. 
 
 CHARLES W. HUBNER. 
 
 " We all do fade as the leaf." 
 
 Who scoffs these sympathies 
 Makes mock of the divinity within ; 
 Nor feels he, gently breathing through his soul, 
 The universal spirit. 
 
 In sun- and starlight shimmering, 
 And fanned by zephyr's silken wing, 
 Ah ! what a bhthe and beauteous thing, 
 
 Dead leaf, wert thou ; 
 All through the summer's merry time, 
 Rejoicing still, or rain or shine. 
 
 Upon the bough. 
 
 Resplendent o'er thine airy home 
 Arose the sky's majestic dome ; 
 Had never king upon the throne 
 
 Such canopy ! 
 The bhss divine of sun and moon, 
 Of stars, and song, and fragrant bloom. 
 
 Was given to thee. 
 
 And blew from east, or blew from west. 
 Sudden the wanton, whirling blast. 
 Thy trembling, tender form to wrest 
 
 From its frail hold. 
 As for his child a father would, 
 The oak the tempest' s wrath withstood. 
 And held thee and thy sisterhood 
 
 Safe in the fold. 
 
1 68 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 So pure, so gay, so fair a sprite ! 
 Born of the season of delight, 
 With all the winsome grace bedight 
 
 It could bestow. 
 Ah ! who that saw thee in thy prime 
 Thought of the fate that would be thine. 
 And that the deadly hand of Time 
 
 Would lay thee low ? 
 
 How short thy life, how soon decay 
 Its light and beauty swept away, 
 " To dumb forgetfulness a prey" 
 
 For evermore ! 
 Thy dust, blown by the whistling wind. 
 In the cold earth will burial find 
 With myriad millions of thy kind 
 
 Long gone before, 
 
 A wind-blown, worthless thing, and yet 
 
 More costly than a coronet 
 
 To him who in his heart shall set 
 
 The golden thought 
 Which, like a precious jewel, lies 
 Beneath thy perishing disguise, 
 The magic stone the worldly-wise 
 
 So long have sought. 
 
 Like thine our youth is fresh and green, 
 Our summer time a merry scene ; 
 The sky is bright with wondrous sheen. 
 
 Our path with flowers ; 
 What splendor circles our estate ! 
 How leaps the heart, with hope elate ! 
 How little do we dream of fate 
 
 And wintry hours ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 But well thou tellest, little leaf, 
 Life's pride is vain, its glory brief ! 
 Cold blow the whirling blasts of grief. 
 
 And lay us low ; 
 Death comes to palace and to cot ; 
 Our dust will share the common lot, 
 And, oh, how soon it is forgot 
 
 Beneath the snow ! 
 
 Learn from the lesson of the leaf 
 That death is sure, that hfe is brief ; 
 And foolish he whose ear is deaf. 
 
 And hath not caught 
 With subtile sense the solemn sound. 
 The perfect harmony profound 
 Of Nature, hfting round by round 
 
 The soul to God. 
 
 ZOLLICOFFER. 
 
 HARRY LYNDEN FLASH. 
 
 First in the fight, and first in the arms 
 Of the white-winged angels of glory. 
 
 With the heart of the South at the feet of God, 
 And his wounds to tell the story. 
 
 For the blood that flowed from his hero heart. 
 On the spot where he nobly perished, 
 
 Was drunk by the earth as a sacrament 
 In the holy cause he cherished. 
 
 In heaven a home with the brave and blest. 
 
 And for his soul's sustaining 
 The atoning blood of his Saviour, Christ, 
 
 And nothing on earth remaining 
 H 15 
 
lyo SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 But a handful of dust in the land of his choice, 
 
 A name in song and story, 
 And fame to shout with immortal voice, 
 
 ' ' Dead on the field of glory. ' ' 
 
 WHAT SHE BROUGHT ME. 
 
 HARRY LYNDEN FLASH. 
 
 This faded flower that you see 
 
 Was given me, a year ago, 
 By one whose little dainty hand 
 
 Is whiter than the snow. 
 
 Her eyes are blue as violets, 
 
 And she's a blonde, and very fair, 
 
 And sunset-tints are not as bright 
 As is her golden hair. 
 
 And there are roses in her cheeks 
 That come and go like living things ; 
 
 Her voice is softer than the brook's 
 That flows from hidden springs. 
 
 She gave it me with downcast eyes 
 And rosy flushes of the cheek, 
 
 That told of tender thoughts her tongue 
 Had never learned to speak. 
 
 The fitting words had just been said, 
 And she was mine as long as life, 
 
 I gently laid the flower aside 
 And kissed my blushing wife. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 171 
 
 She took it up with earnest look 
 
 And said, " Oh, prize the flower," — 
 
 And tender tears were in her eyes, — 
 " It is my only dower." 
 
 She brought me faith, and hope, and truth ; 
 
 She brought me gentle thoughts and love, 
 A soul as pure as those that float 
 
 Around the throne above. 
 
 But earthly things she nothing had, 
 Except this faded flower you see ; 
 
 And, though 'tis worthless in your eyes, 
 'Tis very dear to me. 
 
 MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 
 
 JOHN DICKSON BRUNS, M.D. 
 
 The wild-eyed March has come again, 
 With frightened face and flying feet, 
 
 And hands just loosed from winter's chain, 
 Outstretched reluctant spring to greet. 
 
 From her bleak hills across the lea 
 
 She sweeps, with tresses backward blown, 
 
 And far out on the homeless sea 
 
 The maddened billows hear her moan. 
 
 The leaves are whirled in eddying drifts, 
 Or hunted down the ban-en wold. 
 
 Where timidly the crocus lifts 
 
 Her shaken cup of green and gold. 
 
172 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Above the dark pool's ruffled breast 
 The swallow skims on glancing wing, 
 
 And from yon brown elm's towering crest 
 I hear the amorous mockbird sing ; 
 
 It leans above the gabled roof 
 
 That crowns the long hill' s fallow side, 
 
 A summer shelter shower-proof, 
 
 When June shall flaunt her leafy pride ; 
 
 But naked yet, in wintry guise. 
 
 Its traihng mosses sweep the ground, 
 
 The bare trunk lifted to the skies, 
 A mark for many a league around. 
 
 His sire had planted it, when first 
 
 He made this woodland wild his own ; 
 
 Beneath its boughs his youth was nursed. 
 And with its growth himself had grown 
 
 To manhood and to riper years. 
 
 One on whom God had set his sign. 
 
 The well-beloved of all his peers. 
 But by the poor deemed half divine. 
 
 The good old Doctor ! mild as wise, 
 With pleasant jest for all he met, 
 
 The kindly humor in his eyes 
 
 Flashed through the hps so gravely set. 
 
 Firm hand, big heart, and ample brain 
 Toughened by battles fought and won, 
 
 Scarred with the wind and winter rain, 
 And bronzed by many a summer sun. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 173 
 
 Not largely learned in useless lore, 
 
 Nor dully studious overmuch, 
 Saved by the sturdy wit he bore 
 
 From making other's wit his crutch. 
 
 But many a childing mother owned 
 
 His ready skill, and many a wife, 
 Whose hope or stay in anguish groaned, 
 
 Owed to his care some precious life. 
 
 All perilous soundings in his chart 
 
 Were pricked by faithful memory ; 
 He knew the limits of his art 
 
 As seamen know the unfathomed sea. 
 
 And every season, when to sow 
 Each several seed in order due ; 
 
 And of the wilding weeds that grow. 
 The hidden use of each he knew. 
 
 All earnest faith he held as good, 
 The path of honor plain and broad 
 
 His simple creed, best understood, 
 Was duty unto man and God. 
 
 Not passing with averted face 
 The wayfarer fallen by the road. 
 
 Naked, and bruised, and in disgrace, 
 Fainting beneath life' s heavy load ; 
 
 Into his wounds the oil he poured, 
 Gave food and wine for benison, 
 
 Nor, though his pouch was illy stored. 
 Forgot the pence to help him on. 
 15^ 
 
174 
 
 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 When civic strife ran fierce and high, 
 His was the storm-assuaging speech 
 
 That bade the wordy tumuh die, 
 
 And linked' the neighbors each to each. 
 
 So, walking in this narrow round 
 Of homehest cares and use, at best. 
 
 His days with simple pleasures crowned, 
 Had moved him to his honored rest ; 
 
 When suddenly a darkness fell 
 Black as the fall of thickest night. 
 
 As though some fiend from nether hell 
 Had come between us and God's light. 
 
 From both its brooding pinions oozed 
 The ghastly dews of pestilence, 
 
 A stealthy horror that confused 
 
 The brain, and palsied every sense. 
 
 Where'er the lowering tempest broke, 
 Terror and doom were on the wind ; 
 
 The crowded cities felt the stroke. 
 
 And want and famine stalked behind. 
 
 As rose the long, wild wail of woe, 
 By lake and river, plain and hill, 
 
 The Yellow Death swept on, and, lo ! 
 A land of corpses — stark and chill. 
 
 Then, at the summons, stepping down, 
 By ne'er one selfish thought delayed. 
 
 Where racked with pain, the stricken town 
 Stretched forth its fevered hands for aid, 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 175 
 
 Or where, with anguish looking up, 
 The cowering hamlet, kneeling there, 
 
 Drank to the dregs the bitter cup 
 That might not pass for any prayer, 
 
 He moved, like some supernal guest 
 With healing in his wings and balm 
 
 To bring the tortured body rest, 
 And to the spirit whisper calm. 
 
 Where misery crouched in darkest den, 
 With foulest squalor grim and gaunt, 
 
 He only saw his fellow-men. 
 
 And knew the largest claim in want ; 
 
 Felt the fierce poison in his vein. 
 
 Saw o'er his head the impending sword, 
 
 And fronting fate, in high disdain, 
 Fell at his post without a word. 
 
 When winter frosts had purged the lands, 
 And bleak December winds were shrill. 
 
 They bore him back with reverent hands 
 To his old home upon the hill. 
 
 The spring will dress his narrow bed 
 With all the wild flowers that he loved, 
 
 And 'round his rest a fragrance shed 
 Pure as that virtue he approved ; 
 
 And fainting in the dusky tree 
 
 That rocks above his dreamless sleep, 
 
 With drowsy hum of murmurous bee, 
 A solemn hush will summer keep ; 
 
76 SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 And autumn feed with thousand rills 
 
 The drouth of willow-margined streams, 
 
 And touch the sadness of the hills 
 
 With crimson and with golden gleams ; 
 
 But, evermore, all hours that bring 
 Or summer light, or winter gloom. 
 
 Will pass by on unheeded wing 
 
 Nor pause to note his nameless tomb. 
 
 What needs his name ? or any name 
 
 Of those brave hearts that with him died ? 
 
 They battled not for fee or fame, 
 Our loyal brothers ! true and tried. 
 
 Enough if standing by his grave. 
 In some far twiHght's fading day. 
 
 One tender soul he died to save. 
 
 Remembering all he was, shall say, — 
 
 " Here sleeps beneath his native soil, 
 Who, since his manhood's work began. 
 
 Gave all his days of useful toil 
 
 And, at the last, his life for man. ' ' 
 
 A GANGES DREAM. 
 
 THEO. H. HILL. 
 
 Freighted with fruits, aflush with flowers. 
 
 Oblations to offended powers, — 
 
 What fairy-like flotillas gleam 
 
 At night on Brahma's sacred stream ; 
 
SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 177 
 
 The while, ashore, on bended knees, 
 Benighted Hindoo devotees 
 Sue for their silvery, silken sails 
 The advent of auspicious gales. 
 Such gorgeous pageant I have seen 
 
 Drift down the Ganges while I stood 
 Within the banian's bosky screen 
 
 And gazed on his transfigured flood. 
 Around each consecrated bark 
 That sailed into the outer dark 
 What lambent lights those lanterns gave ! 
 
 What opalescent mazes played 
 Reduplicated on the wave. 
 
 While, to and fro, like censers swayed, 
 They made it luminous to glass 
 Their fleeting splendors ere they pass ! 
 
 O'er each, as shimmering it swung, 
 A haze of crimson halo hung, 
 Begirt by folds of billowy mist. 
 Suffused with purpling amethyst. 
 From these still fainter halos flung. 
 Lent each to some refracted zone 
 Hues of a lustre not its own. 
 Till, satelHte of satellite. 
 Eluding my bewildered sight 
 In gloomier eddies of the stream, 
 Retained no more a borrowed beam. 
 Thus, one by one, their sparkling sails 
 Distended by Sabean gales, 
 I saw those votive vessels glide, 
 Resplendent, o'er the swelling tide. 
 While each, with its attendant shade. 
 Or dusk or radiant ripples made ; 
 These flashing into fiery bloom. 
 Those smouldering into garnet gloom ! 
 
178 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 All this I saw, or else, at night. 
 Pursuing Fancy in her flight, 
 I paused beneath what seemed to be 
 The umbrage of a banian-tree, 
 And down the Ganges of a dream 
 Beheld that gay flotilla gleam. 
 
 It seems to me but yesterday 
 
 Since off the beach of promise lay 
 
 The brilliant barges Hope had wrought 
 
 And young Desire had richly fraught 
 
 (Alas ! how soon such tissues fade !) 
 
 With fragile stuffs whence dreams are made ! 
 
 Proud owner of that fleet, I stood 
 
 Gazing on the transfigured flood. 
 
 And saw its constellated sails 
 
 Expanded by propitious gales. 
 
 Till shallop after shallop flew. 
 
 As fresher yet the breezes blew. 
 
 In joyous quest of full fruition. 
 
 To swift and terrible perdition ! 
 
 Some, in life's vernal equinox. 
 
 O'er desperate seas to wreck were driven, 
 
 And others struck on sunken rocks, 
 Or, in the night, by lightning riven. 
 
 Burned to the water's edge ; while they 
 
 That, not unscathed, though still unshattered. 
 Survived the storm, were wildly scattered. 
 
 One only kept its destined way. 
 
 To sink — no friendly consort near — 
 
 In sight of port, at close of day, 
 
 When seas were calm and skies were clear ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 179 
 
 AN IRISH FAIRY STORY. 
 
 SARAH M. B. PIATT. 
 
 ' ' Good mother, from your wayside hut, 
 
 Wise with your ninety years, 
 Tell me a fairy story ; but 
 
 First wring out all the tears ; 
 For I am hurt beyond the skill 
 
 Of leech, hurt with a knife 
 That seems, in sooth, but slow to kill, — 
 
 Good mother, hurt with life !" 
 
 "My lady, sure you are but sad, 
 
 Yet it' s a merry day. 
 I'm not too wrinkled to be glad 
 
 (And you are not yet gray). 
 It's long, long yet I hope to live. 
 
 For God is good, I'm told. 
 And life's the best He has to give ; 
 
 I'm thankful to be old. 
 
 "Yes, God is good, I'm told. You see, 
 
 I cannot read. But, then, 
 I can believe. He's good to me. 
 
 He is, and good to men. 
 They say He sends us sorrow, too. 
 
 The world would be too sweet 
 To leave, if this should not be true." 
 
 ("The world the moth can eat.") 
 
 " He keeps my little cabin there 
 Safe when the sea-wind blows. 
 
 When I was young He let me wear 
 Upon my cheeks a rose ; 
 
 I 
 
i8o SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 And then it was He sent a youth, 
 
 The handsomest, you'd own. 
 On all the Irish coast. ... In truth, 
 
 It's much I've lived alone, 
 
 " My lady, since that long black night 
 
 His fishing-boat went down. 
 My boy that kept my heart so light 
 
 Had work there in the town ; 
 A lovely boy ! such gold-like hair ; 
 
 All curls !" (Her eyes grew dim.) 
 " Christ keep him ! He is quiet there 
 
 With daisies over him. ' ' 
 
 She hushed, and turned to go inside. 
 
 An earthen floor, ah, me ! 
 A heap of straw (the door was wide) 
 
 Was all that I could see. 
 Yet on the little window, low, 
 
 A bright geranium grew ; 
 " That's for my boy, he loved them so ; 
 
 He loved these thrushes, too." 
 
 • ' Good mother ' ' ' ' Sure but things go ill 
 
 In our poor country. Yet 
 He gives me bread and shelter still ; 
 
 It's me He'll not forget." 
 We parted, for the hght was low ; 
 
 I turned and looked around : 
 Lord of us all, can heart' s-ease grow 
 
 In such a plot of ground ? 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. i, 
 
 MY BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 SARAH M. B. PIATT. 
 
 I KNOW a Story, fairer, dimmer, sadder. 
 Than any story painted in your books. 
 
 You are so glad ? It will not make you gladder ; 
 Yet listen, with your pretty, restless looks. 
 
 " Is it a fairy story .?" Well, half fairy, — 
 
 At least it dates far back as fairies do. 
 And seems to me as beautiful and airy ; 
 
 Yet half, perhaps the fairy half, is true. 
 
 You had a baby sister and a brother 
 
 (Two very dainty people, rosy white. 
 Each sweeter than all things except the other !) 
 
 Older yet younger, gone from human sight ! 
 
 And I, who loved them, and shall love them ever, 
 And think with yearning tears how each light hand 
 
 Crept towards bright bloom or berries, I shall never 
 Know how I lost them. Do you understand ? 
 
 Poor sightly golden heads ! I think I missed them 
 First, in some dreamy, piteous, doubtful way ; 
 
 But when and where with lingering lips I kissed them. 
 My gradual parting, I can never say. 
 
 Sometimes I fancy that they may have perished 
 In shadowy quiet of wet rocks and moss, 
 
 Near paths whose very pebbles I have cherished. 
 For their small sakes, since my most lovely loss. 
 
 I fancy, too, that they were softly covered 
 By robins, out of apple-flowers they knew, 
 i6 
 
1 82 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Whose nursing wings in far home sunshine hovered, 
 Before the timid world had dropped the dew. 
 
 Their names were — what yours are ! At this you wonder. 
 
 Their pictures are — your own, as you have seen ; 
 And my bird-buried darhngs, hidden under 
 
 Lost leaves — why, it is your dead selves I mean ! 
 
 THE FAVORITE OF FIVE. 
 
 SARAH M. B. PIATT. 
 
 Which of five snowdrops would the moon 
 Think whitest, if the moon could see ? 
 
 Which of five rosebuds flushed with June 
 Were reddest to the mother-tree ? 
 
 Which of five birds that play one tune 
 On their soft shining throats, may be 
 Chief singer ? Who will answer me ? 
 
 Would not the moon know, if around 
 One snowdrop any shadow lay ? 
 
 Would not the rosetree, if the ground 
 Should let one rosebud droop a day ? 
 
 Does not the one bird take a sound 
 Into the cloud, when caught away, 
 Finer than all the sounds that stay ? 
 
 Oh, little quiet boy of mine, 
 
 Whose yellow head lies languid here ; 
 Poor yellow head, its restless shine 
 
 Brightened the butterflies last year ! 
 Whose pretty hands may intertwine 
 
 With paler hands unseen, but near : 
 
 You are my favorite now, I fear ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 183 
 
 AFTER WINGS. 
 
 SARAH M. B. PIATT. 
 
 This was your butterfly, you see. 
 
 His fine wings made him vain. 
 The caterpillars crawl, but he 
 
 Pass'd them in rich disdain. 
 My pretty boy says, ' ' Let him be 
 
 Only a worm again !" 
 
 Oh, child, when things have learn' d to wear 
 
 Wings once, they must be fain 
 To keep them always high and fair. 
 
 Think of the creeping pain 
 Which even a butterfly must bear 
 
 To be a worm again ! 
 
 CREED. 
 
 MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND (XARIFFA), 
 
 I BELIEVE if I should die. 
 
 And you should kiss my eyehds while I lie 
 
 Cold, dead, and dumb to all the world contains, 
 The folded orbs would open at thy breath, 
 And from its exile in the isles of death 
 
 Life would come gladly back along my veins. 
 
 I believe if I were dead. 
 
 And you upon my hfeless heart should tread. 
 
 Not knowing what the poor clod chanced to be, 
 It would find sudden pulse beneath the touch 
 Of thee it ever loved in life so much, 
 
 And throb again, warm, tender, true to thee. 
 
1 84 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 I believe if on my grave, 
 
 Hidden in woody deeps or by the wave, 
 
 Your eyes should drop some warm tears of regret. 
 From every salty seed of thy dear grief 
 Some fair sweet blossom would leap into leaf, 
 
 To prove death could not make my love forget. 
 
 I beheve if I should fade 
 
 Into those mystic realms where light is made, 
 
 And you should long once more my face to see, 
 I would come forth upon the hills of night 
 And gather stars like fagots, till thy sight, 
 
 Led by the beacon blaze, fell full on me. 
 
 I believe my faith in thee 
 
 Strong as my life, so nobly placed to be, 
 
 I would as soon expect to see the sun 
 Fall Uke a dead king from his height sublime, 
 His glory stricken from the throne of time. 
 
 As thee unworth the worship thou hast won. 
 
 I believe who hath not loved 
 
 Hath half the sweetness of his life unproved, 
 
 Like one who with the grape within his grasp 
 Drops it with all its crimson juice unpressed, 
 And all its luscious sweetness left unguessed. 
 
 Out from his careless and unheeding clasp. 
 
 I believe love, pure and true. 
 
 Is to the soul a sweet immortal dew 
 
 That gems life's petals in its hours of dusk, — 
 The waiting angels see and recognize 
 The rich crown jewel. Love, of Paradise, 
 
 When life falls from us like a withered husk. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 185 
 
 A GEORGIA VOLUNTEER. 
 
 MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND. 
 
 Far up the lonely mountain-side 
 
 My wandering footsteps led ; 
 The moss lay thick beneath my feet, 
 
 The pine sighed overhead. 
 The trace of a dismantled fort 
 
 Lay in the forest nave, 
 And in the shadow near my path 
 
 I saw a soldier's grave. 
 
 The bramble wrestled with the weed 
 
 Upon the lowly mound. 
 The simple headboard, rudely writ, 
 
 Had rotted to the ground ; 
 I raised it with a reverent hand, 
 
 From dust its words to clear. 
 But time had blotted all but these — 
 
 " A Georgia Volunteer !" 
 
 I saw the toad and scaly snake 
 
 From tangled covert start, 
 And hide themselves among the weeds 
 
 Above the dead man's heart ; 
 But undisturbed, in sleep profound, 
 
 Unheeding, there he lay ; 
 His coffin but the mountain soil. 
 
 His shroud Confederate gray. 
 
 I heard the Shenandoah roll 
 
 Along the vale below, 
 I saw the Alleghanies rise 
 
 Towards the realms of snow. 
 16* 
 
1 86 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 The "Valley Campaign" rose to mind, — 
 Its leader's name, — and then 
 
 I knew the sleeper had been one 
 Of Stonewall Jackson's men. 
 
 Yet whence he came, what lip shall say ? 
 
 Whose tongue will ever tell 
 What desolated hearths and hearts 
 
 Have been because he fell ? 
 What sad-eyed maiden braids her hair, 
 
 Her hair which he held dear ? — 
 One lock of which, perchance, lies with 
 
 The Georgia Volunteer ! 
 
 What mother, with long watching eyes 
 
 And white lips cold and dumb. 
 Waits with appalling patience for 
 
 Her darling boy to come ? 
 Her boy ! whose mountain grave swells up 
 
 But one of many a scar 
 Cut on the face of our fair land 
 
 By gory-handed war. 
 
 What fights he fought, what wounds he wore, 
 
 Are all unknown to fame ; 
 Remember, on his lonely grave 
 
 There is not e'en a name ! 
 That he fought well and bravely, too. 
 
 And held his country dear, 
 We know, else he had never been 
 
 A Georgia Volunteer. 
 
 He sleeps — what need to question now 
 
 If he were wrong or right ? 
 He knows ere this whose cause was just 
 
 In God the Father's sight. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 187 
 
 He wields no warlike weapons now, 
 
 Returns no foeman's thrust, — 
 Who but a coward would revile 
 
 An honest soldier's dust? 
 
 Roll, Shenandoah, proudly roll, 
 
 Adown thy rocky glen, 
 Above thee lies the grave of one 
 
 Of Stonewall Jackson's men. 
 Beneath the cedar and the pine. 
 
 In sohtude austere, 
 Unknown, unnamed, forgotten, lies 
 
 A Georgia Volunteer. 
 
 A WOMAN'S WISH. 
 
 MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND. 
 
 Would I were lying in a field of clover, 
 Of clover cool and soft, and soft and sweet. 
 
 With dusky clouds in deep skies hanging over. 
 And scented silence at my head and feet. 
 
 Just for one hour to slip the leash of Worry, 
 In eager haste, from Thought's impatient neck, 
 
 And watch it coursing, in its heedless hurry 
 Disdaining Wisdom's call or Duty's beck ! 
 
 Ah ! it were sweet, where clover clumps are meeting 
 And daisies hiding, so to hide and rest ; 
 
 No sound except my own heart's sturdy beating, 
 Rocking itself to sleep within my breast. 
 
 Just to lie there, filled with the deeper breathing 
 That comes of listening to a wild bird's song ! 
 
 Our souls require at times this full unsheathing, — 
 All swords will rust if scabbard-kept too long ; 
 
1 88 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 And I am tired, — so tired of rigid duty, 
 So tired of all my tired hands find to do ! 
 
 I yearn, I faint, for some of life's free beauty, 
 
 Its loose beads with no straight string running through ! 
 
 Aye, laugh, if laugh you will, at my crude speech ; 
 
 But women sometimes die of such a greed, — 
 Die for the small joys held beyond their reach, 
 
 And the assurance they have all they need ! 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE. 
 
 ELIZA P. NICHOLSON. 
 
 Tread lightly, — 'tis a soldier's grave, 
 A lonely, mossy mound, — 
 
 And yet, to hearts like mine and thine. 
 It should be holy ground. 
 
 Speak softly ; let no careless laugh. 
 
 No idle, thoughtless jest, 
 Escape your lips, where sweetly sleeps 
 
 The hero in his rest. 
 
 For him no reveille shall beat 
 
 When morning beams shall come ; 
 
 For him, at night, no tattoo rolls 
 Its thunder from the drum. 
 
 No costly marble marks the place, 
 
 Recording deeds of fame. 
 But rudely on that bending tree 
 
 Is carved the soldier's name. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 189 
 
 A name not dear to us, but, ah ! 
 There may be lips that breathe 
 
 That name as sacredly and low- 
 As vesper prayers at eve. 
 
 There may be brows that wear for him 
 
 The mourning cypress vine ; 
 And hearts that make this lonely grave 
 
 A holy pilgrim shrine. 
 
 There may be eyes that joyed to gaze 
 
 With love into his own, 
 Now keeping midnight vigils long 
 
 With silent grief alone. 
 
 There may be hands now clasped in prayer 
 
 This soldier's hand has pressed ; 
 And cheeks washed pale by sorrow's tears, 
 
 His own cold cheek caressed. 
 
 Tread lightly ; for a man bequeathed. 
 
 Ere laid beneath this sod, 
 His ashes to his native land, , 
 
 His gallant soul to God ! 
 
 THE CONQUERED BANNER. 
 
 ABRAM J. RYAN (FATHER RYAN). 
 
 Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary ; 
 Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary 
 
 Furl it, fold it, it is best ; 
 For there's not a man to wave it, 
 And there's not a sword to save it, 
 
190 
 
 SONGS OF THE SOUTH, 
 
 And there's not one left to lave it 
 In the blood which heroes gave it ; 
 And its foes now scorn and brave it ; 
 Furl it, hide it, let it rest ! 
 
 Take that Banner down ! 'tis tattered ; 
 Broken is its staff and shattered ; 
 And the valiant hosts are scattered 
 
 Over whom it floated high. 
 Oh ! 'tis hard for us to fold it ; 
 Hard to think there's none to hold it ; 
 Hard that those who once unrolled it 
 
 Now must furl it with a sigh. 
 
 Furl that Banner ! furl it sadly ! 
 Once ten thousand hailed it gladly, 
 And ten thousand wildly, madly. 
 
 Swore it should forever wave ; 
 Swore that foeman's sw'ord should never 
 Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 
 Till that flag should float forever 
 
 O'er their freedom or their grave ! 
 
 Furl it ! for the hands that grasped it, 
 And the hearts that fondly clasped it. 
 
 Cold and dead are lying low ; 
 And that Banner — it is traiHng ! 
 While around it sounds the waihng 
 
 Of its people in their woe. 
 
 For, though conquered, they adore it ! 
 Love the cold, dead hands that bore it ! 
 Weep for those who fell before it ! 
 Pardon those who trailed and tore it ! 
 But, oh ! wildly they deplore it. 
 Now who furl and fold it so. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH, 191 
 
 Furl that Banner ! True, 'tis gory, 
 Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, 
 And 'twill live in song and story. 
 
 Though its folds are in the dust : 
 For its fame on brightest pages. 
 Penned by poets and by sages, 
 Shall go sounding down the ages, — 
 
 Furl its folds though now we must. 
 
 Furl that Banner, softly, slowly ! 
 Treat it gently — it is holy — 
 
 For it droops above the dead. 
 Touch it not — unfold it never, 
 Let it droop there, furled forever, 
 
 For its people's hopes are fled ! 
 
 THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE. 
 
 ABRAM J. RYAN (FATHER RYAN). 
 
 Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright, 
 
 Flashed the sword of Lee ! 
 Far in the front of the deadly fight. 
 High o'er the brave in the cause of Right, 
 Its stainless sheen, like a beacon hght. 
 
 Led us to Victory ! 
 
 Out of its scabbard, where, full long, 
 
 It slumbered peacefully, 
 Roused from its rest by the battle' s song, 
 Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong, 
 Guarding the right, avenging the wrong, 
 
 Gleamed the sword of Lee. 
 
192 
 
 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Forth from its scabbard, high in air 
 
 Beneath Virginia' s sky ; 
 And they who saw it gleaming there, 
 And knew who bore it, knelt to swear 
 That where that sword led they would dare 
 
 To follow — and to die. 
 
 Out of its scabbard ! Never hand 
 
 Waved sword from stain as free, 
 Nor purer sword led braver band. 
 Nor braver bled for brighter land, 
 Nor brighter land had cause so grand, 
 Nor cause a chief like Lee ! 
 
 Forth from its scabbard ! How we prayed 
 
 That sword might victor be ; 
 And when our triumph was delayed. 
 And many a heart grew sore afraid. 
 We still hoped on while gleamed the blade 
 Of noble Robert Lee. 
 
 Forth from its scabbard all in vain 
 Bright flashed the sword of Lee ; 
 
 'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, 
 
 It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain. 
 
 Defeated, yet without a stain. 
 Proudly and peacefully. 
 
 THE CAMEO BRACELET. 
 
 JAMES RYDER RANDALL. 
 
 Eva sits on the ottoman there. 
 Sits by a Psyche carved in stone. 
 
 With just such a face and just such an air 
 As Esther upon her throne. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 193 
 
 She's sifting lint for the brave who bled, 
 And I watch her fingers float and flow 
 
 Over the linen, as thread by thread 
 It flakes to her lap like snow. 
 
 A bracelet clinks on her delicate wrist, 
 
 Wrought as Cellini's were at Rome, 
 Out of the tears of the amethyst 
 
 And the wan Vesuvian foam. 
 
 And full on the bauble-crest alway, 
 
 A cameo image, keen and fine, 
 Gleams thy impetuous knife, Corday, 
 
 And the lava-locks are thine. 
 
 I thought of the war-wolves on our trail, 
 
 Their gaunt fangs sluiced with gouts of blood, 
 
 Till the Past, in a dead, mesmeric veil, 
 Drooped with its wizard flood ; 
 
 Till the surly blaze through the iron bars 
 Shot to the hearth with a pang and cry, 
 
 While a lank howl plunged from the Champ de Mars 
 To the Column of July ; 
 
 Till Corday sprang from the gem, I swear. 
 
 And the dove-eyed damsel I knew had flown ; 
 
 For Eva was not on the ottoman there 
 By Psyche carved in stone. 
 
 She grew like a Pythoness, flushed with fate, 
 
 'Mid the incantation in her gaze, 
 A lip of scorn, an arm of hate, 
 
 A dirge of the Marseillaise ! 
 I « 17 
 
194 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Eva, the vision was not wild 
 
 When wreaked on the tyrants of the land ; 
 For you were transfigured to Nemesis, child. 
 
 With the dagger in your hand ! 
 
 MY MARYLAND. 
 
 JAMES R. RANDALL. 
 
 (Written at Pointe Coupee, Louisiana, April 26, 1861,) 
 
 The despot's heel is on thy shore, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 His torch is at thy temple door, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Avenge the patriotic gore 
 That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
 And be the battle-queen of yore, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 Hark to an exiled son's appeal, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 My Mother-State, to thee I kneel, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 For life and death, for woe and weal, 
 Thy peerless chivalry reveal. 
 And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Remember Carroll's sacred trust ; 
 Remember Howard's warlike thrust, 
 And all thy slumberers with the just, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 195 
 
 Come ! 'tis the red dawn of the day, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Come ! with thy panophed array, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 With Ringgold's spirit for the fray. 
 With Watson's blood, at Monterey, 
 With fearless Lowe, and dashing May, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Virginia should not call in vain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 She meets her sisters on the plain, 
 " Sic Semper,'' — 'tis the proud refrain, 
 That baffles minions back amain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Arise in majesty again, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Come ! to thine own heroic throng, 
 Striding with Liberty along. 
 And ring thy dauntless slogan song, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 I see the blush upon thy cheek, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 For thou wast ever bravely meek, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 But, lo ! there surges forth a shriek 
 From hill to hill, from creek to creek, — 
 Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
196 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Thou wilt not crook to his control, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Better the fire upon thee roll, 
 Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, 
 Than crucifixion of the soul, 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 I hear the distant thunder-hum, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 The Old Line bugle, fife, and drum, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb — 
 Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum ! 
 She breathes — she burns ! she'll come ! she'll come ! 
 
 Maryland ! My Maryland ! 
 
 JOHN PELHAM. 
 
 JAMES R. RANDALL. 
 
 Just as the Spring came laughing through the strife, 
 
 With all its gorgeous cheer. 
 In the bright April of historic life 
 
 Fell the great cannoneer. 
 
 The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath 
 
 His bleeding country weeps ; 
 Hushed in the alabaster arms of Death 
 
 Our young Marcellus sleeps. 
 
 Nobler and grander than the Child of Rome, 
 
 Curbing his chariot steeds ; 
 The knightly scion of a Southern home 
 
 Dazzled the land with deeds. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 197 
 
 Gentlest and bravest in the battle brunt, 
 
 The champion of the truth, 
 He bore his banner to the very front 
 
 Of our immortal youth, 
 
 A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow, 
 
 The fiery pang of shells, 
 And there's a wail of immemorial woe 
 
 In Alabama dells. 
 
 The pennon droops that led the sacred band 
 
 Along the crimson field ; 
 The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand 
 
 Over the spotless shield. 
 
 We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face, 
 
 While round the lips and eyes. 
 Couched in their marble slumber, flashed the grace 
 
 Of a divine surprise. 
 
 Oh, mother of a blessed soul on high. 
 
 Thy tears may soon be shed ; 
 Think of thy boy with princes of the sky 
 
 Among the Southern dead. 
 
 How must he smile on this dull world beneath. 
 
 Fevered with swift renown ; 
 He with the martyr's amaranthine wreath 
 
 Twining the victor's crown. 
 
 17^ 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 THE DEATH OF THE MAIDEN. 
 
 HENRY MAZYCK CLARKSON, 
 
 Through a forest sere and sober, 
 In the golden-clad October, 
 Autumn winds were softly sighing, 
 Summer leaflets falling, flying. 
 
 Lying, dying everywhere : 
 I was wooing, slowly walking ; 
 I was wandering, lowly talking 
 (Ah ! it seems but yet so lately) 
 With a maiden tall and stately, 
 
 With a maiden frail and fair. 
 
 How she lingered as she listened, 
 And her eyes with tear-drops glistened ; 
 All her brow and bosom blushing 
 Came her words so gently gushing, — 
 
 " Take me, love me — I am thine !" 
 Ah ! those words were whispered lowly 
 And that vow it seemed so holy 
 As a vesper-psalm so saintly, 
 Falling sweetly, falling faintly, 
 
 As a psalmody divine ! 
 
 Sweet those moments of our meeting. 
 Sweet, though few and far too fleeting : 
 Halcyon hours of golden dreaming, — 
 All of life with beauty teeming 
 
 In those glorious, golden hours. 
 Blissful were the thoughts we pondered, 
 Peaceful all the ways we wandered 
 Through the woods and meadow^s mellow, 
 Through the waving fields of yellow. 
 
 Through the sunny autumn flowers. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 199 
 
 Came then sickness, and in anguish 
 Day by day I watched her languish ; 
 Watched her waning ; watched her wasting — 
 Oh ! the agony of tasting 
 
 Those mad moments of despair ! 
 Vain were all the arts of healing, 
 Blight was o'er her beauty stealing ; 
 Vain my wailing ; vain my weeping ; 
 Cruel Death came creeping, creeping. 
 
 Caring not that she was fair. 
 
 After one long night of sorrow, 
 Ere the dawning of the morrow, 
 From the tapers dimly burning. 
 Softly to the maiden turning. 
 
 Something whispered "She is dead." 
 Doubting, fearing, still uncertain. 
 Dreading yet to lift the curtain. 
 Something seemed to hover 'round her ; 
 Angels, then, I knew had found her, 
 
 Knew I then her soul had fled. 
 
 From her lifeless form they tore me, 
 From her cold embrace they bore me, 
 But our souls they could not sever ; 
 We shall meet again forever, — 
 
 Aye, forever, hand in hand ! 
 Time is flowing ; time is flowing ! 
 On her grave the grass is growing ; - 
 Waves the willow o'er her, weeping, 
 But her sainted soul is sleeping 
 
 Sweetly in the spirit-land. 
 
DO SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 BRONZE JOHN AND HIS SAFFRON PLUME. 
 
 MARY WALSINGHAM. 
 
 Came riding forth on a charger bold, 
 
 From the land of the citron-bloom, 
 A stalwart knight with a lance of gold. 
 
 And a dancing yellow plume. 
 His shield was of bronze and his helmet high ; 
 Of flame was his breath, and of fire his eye ; 
 And swift was the flight of the charger by 
 
 Of this knight with the yellow plume. 
 
 Away and away over field and wold, 
 
 Over city and mountain high ! 
 And sharp was the flash of that lance so bold. 
 
 And the glance of that fiery eye. 
 Here was a body, and there was a bier, 
 He slew one here, and he felled one there ; 
 "Away to the feast of death elsewhere !" 
 
 Sang the knight as he clattered by. 
 
 Then down to the Carib sea he rides. 
 
 And over the gulf with speed, 
 And up where the deadly moccasin hides 
 
 In the noxious bending weed ; 
 Up, up, where the meteor's light burned blue. 
 And the foul fog hung and the cypress grew. 
 And the rattlesnake hiss'd, through the swamp he flew, 
 
 Bronze John on his safiron steed. 
 
 Wherever the blast of the tropics blew 
 
 On the bayou's stagnant flume, 
 Or the deadly dwale, or the hemlock grew, 
 
 Or the livid lotus bloom, — 
 
SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 20 1 
 
 Wherever the south wind blew again 
 From the luscious slopes of the Spanish Main 
 He rode, and he rode and he scattered bane, 
 Bronze John and his saffron plume. 
 
 Rap, rap, rap, on the city wall, 
 
 Rap, rap, and " What ho ! indeed ? 
 And who is there ?" quoth the warder tall. 
 
 " Bronze John and his saffron steed !" 
 Quoth the warder tall, ' ' And who may you be ? 
 And come you here from the North Countrie, 
 Or from the tropical South," quoth he, 
 
 " Bronze John and your saffron steed ?" 
 
 Rap, rap, rap, on the city gate, 
 
 And " Open, thou fool, to me !" 
 Quoth the bold Don John, with his lance in wait, 
 
 " I come from the South Countrie, 
 The challenging knight of the brazen shield, 
 And I summon this fortress to quickly yield." 
 " First I'd see thee dead !" quoth the warder chiel, 
 
 And, trembhng, clattered the key. 
 
 Then back drew the knight on his charger bold, 
 
 And levelled his javelin keen ; 
 One blow on the gate with its barb of gold. 
 
 And where was the warder then ? 
 Here was a body, and there was a bier. 
 The captain lay there, and the sentinel here ; 
 '• A king is Bronze John, and his sceptre's his spear," 
 
 Sang the knight as he galloped again. 
 
 And " Hey for the land of the Don," he laughed, 
 
 " The land of the citron bloom, 
 And the potent knight of the yellow shaft. 
 
 And the floating yellow plume ! 
 
202 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 A king is Bronze John, and his steed is Death — 
 Of fire is his eye, and of flame his breath ; 
 And his lance is the doom of the South, ' ' he saith, 
 Bronze John of the saffron plume. 
 
 Then away and away, over hill and glade. 
 
 Over city and forest gloom — 
 Wherever the shade of the palm-tree played, 
 
 Or the rich magnoha's bloom — 
 Wherever the south wind blew again 
 From the luscious slopes of the Spanish Main, 
 He rode and he rode, and he drew not a rein, 
 
 Bronze John and his saffron plume. 
 
 Away like the wing of the wind he passed. 
 
 And his track was the track of doom ; 
 Till out of the North there came at last 
 
 A knight of a snow-white plume — 
 A gallant knight on a steed like snow — 
 And he rode and he rode, and he shouted, " Ho !" 
 [And he lifted his silver javelin, so] 
 
 " Bronze John and your saffron plume. 
 
 " Have at you, devil ! halt and fight ! 
 
 I'll die, or I'll do thee doom !" 
 Then he rode, and he rode at the yellow knight. 
 
 And smote at the saffron plume. 
 They fought and they fought, and they clinched ; and, lo ! 
 Jack Frost he rose, and he shouted, " Ho !" 
 [And he lifted the head of the bandit, so] 
 
 " Bronze John and your saffron plume !" 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 SOMEBODY'S DARLING. 
 
 MARIE LA COSTE. 
 
 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 still on his pale sweet face — 
 Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave — 
 
 The hngering 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 the beautiful blue-veined brow 
 
 Brush every wandering silken thread, 
 Cross his hands on his bosom now, — 
 
 Somebody' s darling is still and dead ! 
 
 Kiss him once for somebody's sake ; 
 
 Murmur a prayer, both soft and low ; 
 One bright curl from its fair mates take — 
 
 They were somebody's pride, you know. 
 Somebody's hand has rested there ; 
 
 Was it a mother's, soft and white ? 
 Or have the Hps of a sister fair 
 
 Been baptized in those waves of light ? 
 
 God knows best ! He was somebody's love ; 
 
 Somebody's heart enshrined him there — 
 Somebody wafted his name above, 
 
 Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. 
 
 203 
 
204 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Somebody wept when he marched away, 
 Looking so handsome, brave, and grand ; 
 
 Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, 
 Somebody clung to his parting hand. 
 
 Somebody's watching and waiting for him, 
 
 Yearning to hold him again to her heart 
 And there he lies — with his blue eyes dim, 
 
 And the smiHng, child-like hps apart. 
 Tenderly bury the fair young dead. 
 
 Pausing to drop on his grave a tear ; 
 Carve on the wooden slab o'er his head, 
 
 ' ' Somebody' s darling sluinbers here !' ' 
 
 THE MARSHES OF GLYNN. 
 
 SIDNEY LANIER. 
 
 Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and woven 
 With intricate shades of the vines that myriad-cloven 
 Clamber the forks of the multiform boughs, — 
 Emerald twilights. 
 Virginal shy lights. 
 Wrought of the leaves to allure to the whisper of vows, 
 When lovers pace timidly down through the green colon- 
 nades 
 Of the dim sweet woods, of the dear, dark woods. 
 
 Of the heavenly woods and glades. 
 That run to the radiant marginal sand-beach within 
 The wide sea-marshes of Glynn. 
 
 Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noonday fire, — 
 Wildwood privacies, closets of lone desire. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 205 
 
 Chamber from chamber parted with wavering arras of 
 
 leaves, — 
 Cells for the passionate pleasure of prayer to the soul that 
 
 grieves, 
 Pure with a sense of the passing of saints through the 
 
 wood. 
 Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with good. 
 O braided dusks of the oak and woven shades of the 
 
 vine, 
 While the riotous noonday sun of the June-day long did 
 
 shine 
 Ye held me fast in your heart and I held you fast in 
 
 mine. 
 But now when the noon is no more, and riot is rest, 
 And the sun is await at the ponderous gate of the 
 
 West, 
 And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle doth 
 
 seem 
 Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream, — 
 Ay, now, when my soul all day hath drunken the soul of 
 
 the oak. 
 And my heart is at ease from men, and the wearisome 
 
 sound of the stroke 
 Of the scythe of time and the trowel of trade is low. 
 And belief overmasters doubt, and I know that I know, 
 And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass within. 
 That the length and the breadth and the sweep of the 
 
 marshes of Glynn 
 Will work me no fear like the fear they have wrought me 
 
 of yore 
 When length was fatigue, and when breadth was but 
 
 bitterness sore. 
 And when terror and shrinking and dreary unnamable 
 
 pain 
 Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain, — 
 18 
 
2o6 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Oh, now, unafraid, I am fain to face 
 
 The vast sweet visage of space. 
 To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am drawn. 
 Where the gray beach ghmmering runs, as a belt of the 
 
 dawn. 
 For a mete and a mark 
 To the forest-dark : 
 
 So: 
 Affable live-oak, leaning low, — 
 Thus — with your favor — soft, with a reverent hand, 
 (Not lightly touching your person, Lord of the land !) 
 Bending your beauty aside, with a step I stand 
 On the firm-packed sand, 
 
 Free 
 By a world of marsh that borders a world of sea. 
 Sinuous southward and sinuous northward the shimmering 
 
 band 
 Of the sand-beach fastens the fringe of the marsh to the 
 
 folds of the land. 
 Inward and outward to northward and southward the 
 
 beach-Hnes Hnger and curl 
 As a silver-wrought garment that clings to and follows the 
 
 firm sweet limbs of a girl. 
 Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight, 
 Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a dim gray looping 
 
 of light. 
 And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods 
 
 stands high ? 
 The world lies east : how ample, the marsh and the sea 
 
 and the sky ! 
 A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad 
 
 in the blade. 
 Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or 
 
 a shade. 
 Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain, 
 To the terminal blue of the main. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 207 
 
 Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea ? 
 
 Somehow my soul seems suddenly free 
 From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin, 
 By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the 
 marshes of Glynn. 
 
 Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withhold- 
 ing and free 
 
 Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to 
 the sea ! 
 
 Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the 
 sun. 
 
 Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath 
 mightily won 
 
 God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain 
 
 And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain. 
 
 As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, 
 Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God : 
 I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies 
 In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and 
 
 the skies : 
 By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod 
 I will heartily lay me ahold on the greatness of God : 
 Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within 
 The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn. 
 
 And the sea lends large, as the marsh : lo, out of his 
 
 plenty the sea 
 Pours fast : full soon the time of the flood-tide must be : 
 Look how the grace of the sea doth go 
 About and about through the intricate channels that flow 
 Here and there, 
 Everywhere, 
 
2o8 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the 
 
 low-lying lanes, 
 And the marsh is meshed with a million veins, 
 That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow 
 In the rose-and-silver evening glow. 
 
 Farewell, my lord Sun ! 
 The creeks overflow : a thousand rivulets run 
 'Twixt the roots of the sod ; the blades of the marsh-grass 
 
 stir ; 
 Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr ; 
 Passeth, and all is still ; and the currents cease to run ; 
 And the sea and the marsh are one. 
 
 How still the plains of the waters be ! 
 The tide is in his ecstasy. 
 The tide is at his highest height : 
 And it is night. 
 
 And now from the vast of the Lord will the waters of sleep 
 
 Roll in on the souls of men. 
 
 But who will reveal to our waking ken 
 
 The forms that swim and the shapes that creep 
 
 Under the waters of sleep ? 
 And I would I could know what swimmeth below when 
 
 the tide comes in 
 On the length and the breadth of the marvellous marshes 
 
 of Glynn. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 
 
 SIDNEY LANIER. 
 
 O Age that half believ'st thou half believ'st, 
 
 Half doubt' St the substance of thine own half doubt, 
 And, half perceiving that thou half perceiv'st, 
 
 Stand' St at thy temple door, heart in, head out ! 
 Lo ! while thy heart's within, helping the choir, 
 
 Without, thine eyes range up and down the time, 
 Blinking at o'er-bright science, smit with desire 
 
 To see and not to see. Hence, crime on crime. 
 Yea, if the Christ (called thine) now paced yon street, 
 
 Thy halfness hot with His rebuke would swell ; 
 Legions of scribes would rise and run and beat 
 
 His fair intolerable Wholeness twice to hell. 
 
 Nay (so, dear Heart, thou whisperest in my soul), 
 ' Tis a half time, yet Time will make it whole. 
 
 II. 
 
 Now at thy soft recaUing voice I rise 
 
 Where thought is lord o'er Time's complete estate, 
 Like as a dove from out the gray sedge flies 
 
 To tree-tops green where cooes his heavenly mate. 
 From these clear coverts high and cool I see 
 
 How every time with every time is knit, 
 And each to all is mortised cunningly, 
 
 And none is sole or whole, yet all are fit. 
 Thus, if this Age but as a comma show 
 
 'Twixt weightier clauses of large-worded years, 
 My calmer soul scorns not the mark : I know 
 
 This crooked point Time's complex sentence clears. 
 Yet more I learn while. Friend ! I sit by thee : 
 Who sees all time, sees all eternity. 
 o i8* 
 
 209 
 
2IO SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 III. 
 
 If I do ask, How God can dumbness keep 
 
 While Sin creeps grinning through His house of Time, 
 Stabbing His saintliest children in their sleep. 
 
 And staining holy walls with clots of crime ? 
 Or, How may He whose wish but names a fact 
 
 Refuse what miser's scanting of supply 
 Would richly glut each void where man hath lacked 
 
 Of grace or bread ? Or, How may Power deny 
 Wholeness to th' almost-folk that hurt our hope — 
 
 These heart-break Hamlets who so barely fail 
 In life or art that but a hair's more scope 
 
 Had set them fair on heights they ne'er may scale ? 
 Somehow by thee, dear Love, I win content : 
 Thy Perfect stops th' Imperfect's argument. 
 
 IV. 
 
 By the more height of thy sweet stature grown. 
 
 Twice-eyed with thy gray vision set in mine, 
 I ken far lands to wifeless men unknown, 
 
 I compass stars for one-sexed eyes too fine. 
 No text on sea-horizons cloudily writ, 
 
 No maxim vaguely starred in fields or skies, 
 But this wise thou-in-me deciphers it : 
 
 Oh, thou'rt the Height of heights, the Eye of eyes. 
 Not hardest Fortune's most unbounded stress 
 
 Can blind my soul nor hurl it from on high, 
 Possessing thee, the self of loftiness. 
 
 And very light that Light discovers by. 
 
 Howe'er thou turn'st, wrong Earth ! still Love's in 
 
 sight : 
 For we are taller than the breadth of night. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 211 
 
 STRUGGLE. 
 
 SIDNEY LANIER. 
 
 My soul is like the oar that momently 
 
 Dies in a desperate stress beneath the wave, 
 
 Then glitters out again and sweeps the sea : 
 
 Each second I'm new-born from some new grave. 
 
 SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE. 
 
 SIDNEY LANIER. 
 
 Out of the hills of Habersham, 
 Down through the valleys of Hall, 
 I hurry amain to reach the plain, 
 Run the rapid and leap the fall, 
 Split at the rock and together again. 
 Accept my bed, or narrow or wide. 
 And flee from folly on every side 
 With a lover's pain to attain the plain 
 Far from the hills of Habersham, 
 Far from the valleys of Hall. 
 
 All down the hills of Habersham, 
 
 All through the valleys of Hall, 
 The rushes cried. Abide, abide, 
 The wilful waterweeds held me thrall, 
 The laving laurel turned my tide, 
 The ferns and the fondling grass said. Stay, 
 The dewberry dipped for to work delay. 
 And the little reeds sighed. Abide, abide, 
 
 Here i7t the hills of Habersham, 
 
 Here in the valleys of Hall. 
 
212 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 High o'er the hills of Habersham, 
 
 Veiling the valleys of Hall, 
 The hickory told me manifold 
 Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall 
 Wrought me her shadowy self to hold. 
 The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, 
 Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign. 
 Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold 
 
 Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, 
 
 These glades in the valleys of Hall. 
 
 And oft in the hills of Habersham, 
 
 And oft in the valleys of Hall, 
 The white quartz shone and the smooth brook-stone 
 Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, 
 And many a luminous jewel lone — 
 Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist, 
 Ruby, garnet, and amethyst — 
 Made lures with the lights of streaming stone 
 
 In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, 
 
 In the beds of the valleys of Hall. 
 
 But, oh, not the hills of Habersham, 
 
 And, oh, not the valleys of Hall 
 Avail : I am fain for to water the plain. 
 Downward the voices of Duty call — 
 Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main. 
 The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn. 
 And a myriad flowers mortally yearn, 
 And the lordly main from beyond the plain 
 
 Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, 
 
 Calls through the valleys of Hall. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 213 
 
 THE MOCKING-BIRD. 
 
 SIDNEY LANIER. 
 
 Superb and sole, upon a plumed spray 
 
 That o' er the general leafage boldly grew, 
 
 He summ'd the woods in song ; or typic drew 
 
 The watch of hungry hawks, the lone dismay 
 
 Of languid doves when long their lovers stray. 
 
 And all birds' passion-plays that sprinkle dew 
 
 At morn in brake or bosky avenue. 
 
 Whate'er birds did or dreamed, this bird could say. 
 
 Then down he shot, bounced airily along 
 
 The sward, twitched in a grasshopper, made song 
 
 Midflight, perched, prinked, and to his art again. 
 
 Sweet Science, this large riddle read me plain: 
 
 How may the death of that dull insect be 
 
 The life of yon trim Shakespeare on the tree ? 
 
 KIN. 
 
 ASA ROGERS WATSON. 
 
 I OPENED the gate that you might pass, 
 You threw me a coin for my trouble ; 
 
 Untouched it rolled off into the grass, 
 And would had its value been double. 
 
 You stroke your dog and pat your horse 
 And toss me a coin for my duty ; 
 
 Which love is strongest ? which is worth 
 White billets ? Eh, my beauty ! 
 
 Neither ? Well, I had guessed as much 
 I knew I was not worth your scorning. 
 
214 
 
 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Not worth a thought when you'd passed the gate 
 I rev'rently opened this morning. 
 
 Is it not strange that luck should be 
 
 Such a very vigilant warden ? 
 That you should be higher, up there in the hall, 
 
 Than I, down here in the garden ? 
 
 Yet so it is ; so you and the world 
 
 Have settled our conditions ; 
 I grow the roses that you wear — 
 
 Here end our several missions. 
 
 Than you the stars are not more high, 
 
 Not farther beyond my reaching ; 
 The utmost world of the universe 
 
 Is less dumb to my beseeching. 
 
 But what makes the distance 'twixt you and me ? 
 
 I'd swear the same blood is flowing 
 In both our veins ; mine is noble as yours — 
 
 'Tis true, and worth the showing. 
 
 You shudder to hear me babbling so, — 
 
 I would not offend you, madam; 
 But still I protest we are kith and kin, — 
 
 You're but five years later from — Adam. 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 CLIFFORD LANIER. 
 
 Dreaming along the haunted shore of time, 
 And mad that sea's ^oHan song to sing, 
 
 He found the shell of Beauty, rhythmic rhyme. 
 And fondly deemed its sheen a Hving thing. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 And when night's vast and shadowy urn 
 
 Overbrims with dreams 
 I stir the vales of sleep with my nocturne ; 
 Slowly, tenderly 
 Outflow its rippling streams 
 To blend with Night's still sea of mystery ; 
 The pungent savor of the dewy buds, 
 The coolness and the languor of old woods, 
 And the slow murmur of the darkling rills 
 My art distils 
 Into a subtle philter, wild, intense, 
 Of tenuous melody 
 And slumbrous harmony, 
 Blown round the dusky hills. 
 Through fragrant fruity tropic thickets dense, 
 Lingering and lapsing on. 
 And lost before the dawn ! 
 
 Higher ! 
 Higher ! 
 I aspire 
 To Freedom's fullest note ; 
 The vigor of waxing birdhood thrills my throat ; 
 Morn's wide horizon, rimmed with fervid fire, 
 Broadens my hope 
 And sets far limitations to the scope 
 Of my desire ! 
 Cage me not ! 
 Enrage me not ! 
 Confine me to no purfled garden-plot : 
 My song must grow, as grows the plant or tree, 
 Out of the sun and earth and winds of Liberty ! 
 
 Upon no vast 
 Dead past 
 
 I turn my eyes ; 
 But every budding moment' s blossom I forecast, 
 
 219 
 
220 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 And take each day' s new melodies by surprise 
 
 I leap to meet fresh weather, 
 
 And feel through every feather 
 The first delicious foretaste of a change ; 
 
 I test the range 
 Of Nature's every franchise, every tether ! 
 
 Dream on, O nightingale ! 
 Old things shall fade and fail, 
 And the glory of the past shall not avail 
 Against the Future, all-encompassing, 
 Whose prophet and whose poet I would be, 
 Whose promise and whose meaning I shall see, 
 Whose fires shall flame in every note I sing ! 
 
 THE FAWN. 
 
 I LAY close down beside the river, 
 
 My bow well strung, well filled my quiver. 
 
 The god that dwells among the reeds 
 Sang sweetly from their tangled bredes ; 
 
 The soft-tongued water murmured low, 
 Swinging the flag-leaves to and fro. 
 
 Beyond the river, fold on fold, 
 
 The hills gleamed through a film of gold ; 
 
 The feathery osiers waved and shone 
 Like silver threads in tangles blown. 
 
 A bird, fire-winged, with ruby throat, 
 Down the slow, drowsy wind did float. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 221 
 
 And drift and flit and stray along, 
 A very focal flame of song. 
 
 A white sand-isle amid the stream 
 Lay sleeping by its shoals of bream ; 
 
 In lilied pools, alert and calm. 
 
 Great bass through lucent circles swam ; 
 
 And farther, by a rushy brink, 
 
 A shadowy fawn stole down to drink, 
 
 Where tall, thin birds unbalanced stood 
 In sandy shallows of the flood. 
 
 And what did I beside the river, 
 
 With bow well strung and well-filled quiver ? 
 
 I lay quite still with half-closed eyes, 
 Lapped in a dream of Paradise, 
 
 Until I heard a bow-cord ring. 
 And from the reeds an arrow sing. 
 
 I knew not of my brother's luck. 
 If well or ill his shaft had struck ; 
 
 But something in his merry shout 
 Put my sweet summer dream to rout. 
 
 And up I sprang, with bow half-drawn, 
 And keen desire to slay the fawn. 
 
 But where was it ? Gone like my dream. 
 I only heard the fish-hawk scream, 
 
 And the strong striped bass leap up 
 Beside the lily's floating cup ; 
 19* 
 
222 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 I only felt the cool wind go 
 Across my face with steady flow ; 
 
 I only saw those thin birds stand 
 Unbalanced on the river sand, 
 
 Low peering at some dappled thing 
 In the green rushes quivering. 
 
 POE'S COTTAGE AT FORDHAM. 
 
 JOHN HENRY BONER. 
 
 Here lived the soul enchanted 
 
 By melody of song ; 
 Here dwelt the spirit haunted 
 
 By a demoniac throng ; 
 Here sang the lips elated, 
 Here grief and death were sated. 
 Here loved and here unmated 
 
 Was he, so frail, so strong. 
 
 Here wintry winds and cheerless 
 
 The dying firehght blew. 
 While he whose song was peerless 
 
 Dreamed the drear midnight through ; 
 And from dull embers chiUing 
 Crept shadows darkly filling 
 The silent place, and thrilling 
 
 His fancy as they grew. 
 
 Here with brow bared to heaven, 
 
 In starry night he stood. 
 With the lost star of seven 
 
 Feeling sad brotherhood. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Here in the sobbing showers 
 Of dark autumnal hours 
 He heard suspected powers 
 
 Shriek through the stormy wood. 
 
 From visions of Apollo 
 
 And of Astarte's bliss, 
 He gazed into the hollow 
 
 And hopeless vale of Dis ; 
 And though earth were surrounded 
 By heaven, it still was mounded 
 With graves. His soul had sounded 
 
 The dolorous abyss. 
 
 Proud, mad, but not defiant, 
 
 He touched at heaven and hell. 
 Fate found a rare soul pliant. 
 And rung her changes well. 
 Alternately his lyre, 
 Stranded with strings of fire, 
 Led earth's most happy choir, 
 Or flashed with Israfel. 
 
 No singer of old story 
 
 Luting accustomed lays, 
 No harper for new glory. 
 
 No mendicant for praise, 
 He struck high chords and splendid. 
 Wherein were fiercely blended 
 Tones that unfinished ended 
 
 With his unfinished days. 
 
 Here through this lowly portal. 
 Made sacred by his name, 
 
 Unheralded immortal 
 
 The mortal went and came. 
 
 223 
 
224 SONGS OF THE SOUTH, 
 
 And fate that then denied him, 
 And envy that decried him, 
 And mahce that behed him, 
 Have cenotaphed his fame. 
 
 WHAT IS LIFE? 
 
 SALLIE A. BROCK. 
 
 "What is Life?" I asked of a wanton child. 
 
 As he chased a butterfly ; 
 And his laugh gushed out all joyous and wild. 
 
 As the insect flitted by. 
 "What is Life ?" I asked ; " oh, tell me, I pray !" 
 His echoes rang merrily, " Life is Play !" 
 
 " What is Life ?" I asked of the maiden fair, 
 
 And I watched her glowing cheek 
 As the blushes deepened and softened there, 
 
 And the dimples played "hide and seek." 
 "What is Life ? Can you tell me its fullest measure ?' 
 She smilingly answered, " Life is Pleasure !" 
 
 "What is Life ?" I asked of a soldier brave. 
 
 As he grasped the hilt of his sword ; 
 He planted his foot on a foeman's grave. 
 
 And looked " creation's lord." 
 ' ' What is Life ?' ' I queried ; ' ' oh, tell me its story. ' ' 
 His brow grew bright as he answered, " Glory !" 
 
 ' ' What is Life ?' ' I asked of a mother proud. 
 
 As she bent o'er her babe asleep, 
 With a low, hushed tone, lest a thought aloud 
 
 Might waken its slumber deep. 
 Her smile turned grave, though wondrous in beauty, 
 While she made reply, " Life — life is Duty !" 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 215 
 
 TO AN ENGLISH NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 maurice thompson. 
 Hear ! 
 
 Hear! 
 Oh, will you hear ? 
 Reed notes clear, 
 (Fluted in flowery, May-drowsed solitudes, 
 Filtered through sun-steeped woods) 
 A challenge hurled 
 To all the singing world ! 
 
 I the mocking-bird 
 Am stirred 
 With song's wild rapture ; and the prophet's mood 
 Grows stronger in me with each freer breath 
 Of balm-buds sweet as meth ; 
 I am no singer rude ; 
 Here, drink my melody, spiced with things as good 
 As made the bragget that old Chaucer brewed. 
 
 Or if Villon 
 
 You dote upon 
 I have his note and more. 
 And Ronsard's best in store, 
 Caught from a gay gar^on 
 Who sang them clear and strong. 
 On Bayou Teche, 
 With a Creole dash 
 In his voice and the brim of the hat he wore ! 
 
 What cheer ! 
 What cheer ! 
 That is the cardinal grosbeak's way, 
 With his sooty face and his coat so red ; 
 
2i6 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Too shrill, too red, too loud and gay 
 
 (Top-knotted like a jay), 
 Too crude for the critical eye and ear ! 
 In a wild plum-thicket of Tennessee 
 He flung a challenge out to me, 
 
 And, as Marsyas, easily 
 Beaten and flayed ahve was he. 
 
 Cheer ! cheer ! 
 What cheer ! 
 Oh, all the world shall be glad to hear ! 
 
 And the nightingale 
 
 Shall fail 
 When I burst forth with my freedom -song 
 
 So rich and strong ! 
 
 Oh! 
 Ho! 
 That' s a brown thrush 
 
 In the underbrush. 
 Conceited, self-conscious, inclined to gush, 
 His is a voice that will not wear ; 
 Faulty timbre and volume weak. 
 He wrings from his beak 
 A spiral squeak 
 That bores like a gimlet through the air ! 
 And the catbird, too. 
 With its feline mew, 
 Is only fit for the springe and the snare ! 
 
 Hike 
 
 The shrike. 
 Because, with a thorn for a guillotine, 
 He does his work so well and clean, 
 A critic keen — 
 A practical bird, 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 217 
 
 Whose common sense 
 Must be immense, 
 For, tell me who has ever heard 
 
 Of such a thing 
 As a loggerhead shrike that tried to sing ? 
 Hear ! See ! Oh, see ! 
 
 What do you think of me ? 
 Do I sing by rote. 
 Or by note ? 
 Have I a parrot' s echo-throat ? 
 Oh, no ! I caught my strains 
 From Nature's freshest veins. 
 
 Where blows 
 The Cherokee rose 
 Amidst Floridian hills, a slave I heard 
 Halloo across a green tobacco field. 
 
 And sing as gleeful as a brook or bird, 
 The whiles a heavy hoe his hand did wield ; 
 I mixed his tune 
 With the heat of June, 
 And sang it 
 And rang it 
 By the slow Aucilla 
 And the deep Sattilla 
 In groves of palm and pine by tropic breezes stirred, 
 And all the world has heard. 
 
 Mine is the voice of Spring, 
 My home is the land of the new, 
 
 And every note I sing 
 Is fresh as the morning dew ; 
 For I am Freedom's bird 
 
 Whom the Pilgrim Fathers heard. 
 In their dreams of liberty, 
 Calling them to the dark wild woods across the West- 
 ern sea ! 
 
 K 19 
 
2i8 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Not a mere mimic I, 
 That is a courtly lie 
 To give precedence to the nightingale 
 Bred in a classic vale, 
 
 Shadowed by ruins old and dim. 
 Give me a tilt at him ! 
 
 Prestige of fame ? 
 Romance of ages in his name ? 
 
 What care I ! 
 That bird shall die ' 
 
 And He 
 My countless list of slain among, 
 On the flowery field of song ! 
 He 
 A match for me ! 
 No more than a wren or a chickadee ! 
 Mine is the voice of the young and strong, 
 Mine the soul of the brave and the free ! 
 
 But I can pipe the oldest runes 
 And trill the rarest tunes 
 Of every tongue in which song's perfume is. 
 Each swell I know, 
 Each quaver low. 
 The precious rhymes and rhythmic ecstasies 
 Dreamed of by master-bards long dead 
 And buried ; 
 And in my treasure 
 The lightest measure, 
 Rondeau, ballade, or virelay. 
 
 To music set. 
 Can match the vagabond troubadour's mandore fret 
 for fret. 
 And in a key more gay 
 My triolet ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 I turned to the father, who stood near by 
 
 And gazed on his wife with pride ; 
 Then a tear of joy shone bright in his eye 
 
 For the treasure that lay at her side. 
 I hstened well for the tale that should come : 
 " My life !" he cried, " my life is Home !" 
 
 "What is Life ?" I asked of the infidel ; 
 
 His eyes were haggard and bleared ; 
 Fierce, nAocking sneers from his thin lips swell, 
 
 And his heart with vice was seared. 
 "What is Life ?" I asked, "in its ebb and flow?" 
 With an oath he muttered, " Life is Woe !" 
 
 ' ' What is Life ?' ' I asked of the invalid wan, 
 As he wheeled to the grate his chair, 
 
 And frowned as through the casement there ran 
 A fluttering breath of air. 
 
 " What is Life ?" I asked — I asked again : 
 
 He languidly coughed, and answered, "Pain !" 
 
 "What is Life?" I asked of the statesman grand, 
 
 The idol of the hour ; 
 The fate of a nation was in his hand — 
 
 His word was the breath of power. 
 He, sickening, turned from the world's caress : 
 " 'Tis a bubble !" he cried — " 'tis Emptiness !" 
 
 " What is Life ?" I asked of the miser grim. 
 
 As he clutched his well-filled bag ; 
 His features were gaunt and his figure slim. 
 
 His garment a tattered rag. 
 "What is Life?" I asked, "the story unfold." 
 " Life," he chuckled, " life is Gold !" 
 / 
 
 '25 
 
2 26 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 " What is Life ?" I asked of the student of books, 
 
 Exploring a ponderous tome ; 
 There are curious things in the rare old works 
 
 Whence the records of science come. 
 For a moment he turned from his learned perch, 
 And quickly answered, " Life is Research !" 
 
 "What is Life ?" I asked of a Christian meek, 
 
 As she knelt before a shrine ; 
 The impress of Heaven was on her cheek. 
 
 In her eyes a light divine. 
 "What is Life ?" I questioned, "oh, trace me its path !' 
 She pointed upward, and whispered " Faith !" 
 
 ' ' What is Life ?' ' I asked of a man of care, 
 
 Bending under the load of years : 
 He ran his fingers through his thin gray hair. 
 
 And his eyelids were humid with tears. 
 His voice trembled, " I once was brave ; 
 Life is a shadow that points to the Grave !" 
 
 I turned and asked of my inner heart 
 
 What story it could unfold ? 
 It bounded quick in its pulses' start, 
 
 As the record it unrolled. 
 I read on the page, "Love, Hope, Joy, Strife ! 
 What the heart would make it, such is Life !" 
 
 ELUSION. 
 
 G. HERBERT SASS. 
 
 Return from the gloom of the past time 
 
 O spirit of passion and grace ! 
 Once more, though perchance for the last time, 
 
 Unveil the dear charm of thy face. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 In the bloom of thy beauty's fruition 
 Come back from the shades of the night 
 
 passionate, exquisite vision 
 
 Of vanished delight ! 
 
 Where art thou ? Too long o'er life's sterile 
 
 And storm-beaten desert my feet, 
 Pressing on through all pleasure and peril, 
 
 Have sought thy lost footprints to meet. 
 Too long has my soul's deep desire 
 
 Fallen faint in the fret and the doubt, 
 And the futile and fugitive fire 
 Has almost burnt out. 
 
 Shall not once ere the battle be ended 
 Ere the weary and sorrow-worn heart 
 
 Cease all its wild throbs, and the splendid 
 Supreme aspiration depart — 
 
 Shall not once more the shadow be riven. 
 And some subtle, ineffable gleam 
 
 Flash down from the innermost heaven 
 To hallow my dream ? 
 
 Full oft has thy mystical presence 
 
 Glanced past like a star in a storm, 
 Full oft in mute, meek acquiescence 
 
 I have turned from thy vanishing form ; 
 But now the last desperate hour 
 
 Is pressing on bosom and brain ; 
 In the night of thy hfe-giving power 
 Oh, bless me again ! 
 
 1 have sought thee through mountain and meadow, 
 
 I have wandered by river and rill, 
 I have paused where the cool cedar shadow 
 Sleeps soft on the clover-crowned hill. 
 
 227 
 
228 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 " Lo, here," and " Lo, there !" said the voices 
 
 " She is yonder ! she passes ! she stays !" 
 But, ah, through Earth's infinite choices 
 I found not thy ways. 
 
 Wilt thou come in the thrill of a whisper ? 
 
 Wilt thou gleam in the flash of a smile ? 
 Some eve when the balm-breeze — a lisper 
 
 Of love-songs that trance and beguile — 
 Steals close unawares, wilt thou follow, 
 
 And tarry, and linger, and wait. 
 Just once, on the slope — in the hollow — 
 Or by the church-gate ? 
 
 Come ! Come ! In my soul the last ember 
 Of the faith and the hope and the trust. 
 
 Whose birth I but dimly remember. 
 Is dying away into dust. 
 
 Yet, yet may the vision supernal 
 Break full on the spirit's rapt eye — 
 
 But which is supreme, which eternal, 
 Love's smile — or her sigh .? 
 
 THE MIGHTY SEPULCHRE. 
 
 MARY E. BRYAN. 
 
 The earth is a palace, o'er-roofed with blue, 
 
 With a thousand lamps out swinging. 
 But its floor is paved with a thousand graves, 
 And we know they He in the sea' s deep caves, 
 For, forever the voice of its myriad waves 
 Are their solemn dirges singing. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 229 
 
 Yes, the earth is a sepulchre, vast and grand. 
 
 And the name of its dead is legion. 
 And the mountains, as their tall monuments stand, 
 The winds moan of them in deserts of sand, 
 And the midnight waves tell the lonely strand 
 
 Of graves in the sea's still region. 
 
 But goodly guests has that silent hall, 
 
 The dust of the bravest and fairest — 
 Hearts that nothing could e'er appal. 
 And eyes that flashed at the spirit's call, 
 But decay lies darkly down with them all, 
 
 And his touch their grave robes searest. 
 
 But the stars are weary of watching the dead. 
 
 And the sea of singing their dirges, 
 And Earth — a Niobe — bows her head 
 And clasps the dust of her children dead. 
 And lists for the Messenger's stately tread — 
 The solemn herald of him who has said 
 
 That death into life emerges. 
 
 THE PRAYER OF AGUR. 
 
 HAMILTON JAY. 
 
 Two things remove from me : 
 The curse of vanity. 
 And hes that evil be. 
 
 Give me no store of gold. 
 Lest it my soul enfold 
 And make my heart grow cold 
 20 
 
230 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 To tales of sore distress, 
 To orphans' wretchedness, 
 To eyes that grief confess. 
 
 I ask not poverty. 
 But rather to be free 
 To do as suiteth Thee. 
 
 To be Thy almoner 
 
 To those who drink of myrrh, 
 
 And in the grave-clothes stir. 
 
 Give me but humble food, 
 A way to do some good, 
 To recompense Thy blood. 
 
 THE MECKLENBURG DECLARATION, MAY 20, 
 
 1775- 
 
 WILLIAM C. ELAM. 
 
 Oppressed and few, but freemen yet. 
 The men of Mecklenburg had met. 
 
 Determined to be free. 
 
 And crook no coward knee, 
 Though Might in front and Treason at the back 
 Brought death and ruin in their joint attack. 
 
 The tyrant' s heel was on the land 
 When Polk convoked his gallant band, 
 
 And told in' words full strong 
 
 The bitter tale of wrong. 
 Then came a whisper, like the storm's first waves : 
 "We must be independent, or be slaves !" 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 But, hark ! What hurried rider, this, 
 With jaded horse and garb amiss, 
 
 Whose look some woe proclaims, 
 
 Ere he his mission names ? 
 He rides amain from far off Lexington, 
 And tells the blood-red news of war begun ! 
 
 Then Brevard, Balch, and Kennon spoke 
 The wise bold words that aye invoke 
 
 Men to defend the right 
 
 And scorn the despot' s might ; 
 Until from all there rose the answering cry : 
 "We will be independent, or we die." 
 
 When Alexander called the vote. 
 No dastard "nay's" discordant note 
 
 Broke on that holy air — 
 
 For dastard none was there ! 
 But in prompt answer to their country's call, 
 They pledged life, fortune, sacred honor — all ! 
 
 In solemn hush the people heard ; 
 
 With shout and cheer they caught the word : 
 
 Independence ! In that sign 
 
 We grasp our right divine ; 
 For the tyrant's might and the traitor's hate 
 Must yield to men who fight for God and State ! 
 
 The hero shout flew on the breeze ; 
 Rushed from the mountains to the seas ; 
 
 Till all the land uprose. 
 
 Their faces to their foes, 
 Shook off the thraldom they so long had borne. 
 And swore the oath that Mecklenburg had sworn ! 
 
 And well those men maintained the right ; 
 They kept the faith, and fought the fight ; 
 
 231 
 
232 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Till Might and Treason both 
 
 Fled fast before the oath 
 Which brought the God of Freedom's battles down 
 To place on patriot brows the victor's crown ! 
 
 HAUNTED. 
 
 ELIZA FRANCES ANDREWS. 
 
 And so the old house is haunted, you say, 
 
 And men look askance as they pass in the street ; 
 
 Ah well, you say true, for turn where I may 
 Pale gltpsts of the past rise unbid at my feet. 
 
 Sitting alone by my desolate hearth 
 
 The shadowy phantoms come thronging around ; 
 Phantoms of pleasures that died in their birth. 
 
 And sorrows that never a burial found. 
 
 Pale faces gaze at me I fain would forget. 
 
 And voices long hushed wake to music again ; 
 
 Each dusky old corridor's echoing yet 
 
 With footsteps that memory would stifle, in vain. 
 
 There' s a ghogt in the garret, a ghost in the hall ; 
 
 Each chamber, so silent and empty you see, 
 With its barren expanses of blank, bare wall, 
 
 Has a ghostly inhabitant waiting for me. 
 
 That old arm-chair, do you think, by the fire 
 
 Is vacant ? Ah, no ; when the embers burn low 
 
 Comes the vision at eve of a gray-headed sire. 
 And spreads its thin palms in the sullen red glow. 
 
 This sofa, moth-eaten and useless for years. 
 Once pillowed the saintliest sufferer' s head ; 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 233 
 
 Oh, mother ! 'twould spare me my bitterest tears, 
 Would memory but leave you at rest with the dead. 
 
 For joys that are gone, when remembered again. 
 Like flowers bereft of their sweets by the frost, 
 
 Are poor withered things that do but retain 
 
 The thorns of the rose when its fragrance is lost. 
 
 Step light by that closet ; breathe soft as you go ; 
 
 For there is the spectre I dread most of all ; 
 There's a skeleton hid in each household, you know ; 
 
 Come this way ; that picture you see on the wall 
 
 With its round rosy lips and its clustering hair — 
 She' s a ghost now that hovers each night at my door ; 
 
 And those little worn shoes — do you think I can't hear 
 Their pattering yet on the old oaken floor ? 
 
 Why is it, I wonder, the past never dies, 
 
 Though you bury it deep as the ocean's bed ! 
 
 From the lowest abyss 'twill unbidden arise 
 And live in eternity when you are dead. 
 
 See here where a nuptial couch was spread, 
 
 But the bridegroom's content with a pillow of clay, 
 
 And the bride, she is faded and old and unwed ; 
 She hath seen but the ghost of her marriage day. 
 
 For visions there are of times and of places 
 That come to us oft as our life waxes old, 
 
 As well as of people and voices and faces 
 Shivering bodiless out in the cold. 
 
 Yes, the old house is haunted, the people say true ; 
 
 Go, leave me alone with my shadowy host : 
 With the living and loving what have I to do ? 
 
 For I am myself but an unburied ghost, 
 
 20* 
 
234 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 CONQUERED AT LAST. 
 
 MARIA LOU EVE. 
 
 You came to us once, O brothers, in wrath, 
 And rude desolation followed your path. 
 
 You conquered us then, but only in part. 
 For a stubborn thing is the human heart. 
 
 So the mad wind blows in his might and main. 
 And the forests bend to his breath like grain, 
 
 Their heads in the dust and their branches broke ; 
 But how shall he soften their hearts of oak 1 
 
 You swept o'er our land like the whirlwind's wing, 
 But the human heart is a stubborn thing. 
 
 We laid down our arms, we yielded our will ; 
 But our heart of hearts was unconquered still. 
 
 "We are vanquished," we said, "but our wounds must 
 
 heal ;" 
 We gave you our swords, but our hearts were steel. 
 
 "We are conquered," we said, but our hearts were sore. 
 And "Woe to the conquered" on every door. 
 
 But the spoiler came, and he would not spare ; 
 The angel that walketh in darkness was there ; 
 
 He walked through the valley, walked through the street, 
 And he left the print of his fiery feet, 
 
 In the dead, dead, dead, that were everywhere. 
 And buried away with never a prayer. 
 
SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH, 235 
 
 From the desolate land, from its very heart, 
 There went forth a cry to the uttermost part. 
 
 You heard it, O brothers ! With never a measure 
 You opened your hearts and poured out your treasure. 
 
 O Sisters of Mercy ! you gave above these ! 
 
 For you helped, we know, on your bended knees. 
 
 Your pity was human, but, oh ! it was more. 
 When you shared our cross and our burden bore. 
 
 Your lives in your hands, you stood by our side ; 
 Your lives for our lives you laid down, and died ; 
 
 And no greater love hath a man to give 
 
 Than to lay down his life that his friends may live. 
 
 You poured in our wounds the oil and the wine 
 That you brought to us from a hand divine. 
 
 You conquered us, brothers ; our swords we gave ; 
 We yield now our hearts — they are all we have. 
 
 Our last ditch was there, and it held out long ; 
 It is yours, O friends, and you'll find it strong. 
 
 Your love had a magic, diviner than art, 
 
 And "Conquered by kindness" we'll write on our heart. 
 
 THE RIVER. 
 
 MRS. MARY C. HILL. 
 
 Oh, rugged river ! restless river ! 
 River of years — river of tears — 
 Thou river of Life ! 
 
236 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 River of tears ! Yet o' er thy bosom Joy, as a bird, flashes 
 
 its gaudy wing, 
 And drinks its draught of ecstasy from out thy crystal 
 spring. 
 
 Oh, sunht river ! shadowy river ! 
 River of gladness — river of sadness — 
 Thou river of Life ! 
 River of gladness ! Yet o'er the blue of the beautiful sky 
 
 floats a cloud, 
 Out of whose fleecy whiteness the loom of God is weaving 
 
 a shroud. 
 Oh, beautiful river ! while the star of youth is glowing 
 
 From the silver-sprinkled sky ; 
 River of Life ! when health's elixir flowing 
 
 Paints thy waters its rosy dye. 
 Sunlit river ! when the days are full of peace, 
 
 And the calm of the song the river sings, 
 
 And the quiet joy the lullaby brings. 
 We feel will never cease. 
 And while the waters glow and glisten, 
 Ah ! how seldom do we listen 
 
 To the turning of the ponderous wheel of Time, 
 Over whose granite sides are rushing 
 
 The waves of the river in a symphony sublime ! 
 But when the waters are black and bleeding, 
 
 Dyed with dread Disease's breath. 
 And we feel the river leading 
 
 To the fathomless sea of Death, — 
 Then, ah ! then, in our agony of soul 
 
 We cry, * ' Oh, wheel of Time ! one moment stay ! 
 Turn back the river, and cease to roll, 
 
 For a life we love is passing away." 
 But God is the miller, and the wheel is turning, 
 Though Grief s hot irons our hearts are burning, 
 And the river's song is only a moan. 
 And the grinding wheel sounds a groan. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 237 
 
 But from out our midnight gloom 
 
 Look up ! God knoweth best, 
 See the hfe we love as it catches the bloom 
 
 Of Infinite radiance and rest ! 
 Its waters have mingled with the crystal stream 
 
 Flowing so close to the throne, 
 And the waves have caught the golden gleam 
 
 And the river's voice, God's tender tone. 
 And the river in heaven in its crystal calm 
 
 Found its way through the golden bars, 
 
 Flowing upward — beyond the garden of stars — 
 To the feet of God and His Lamb. 
 
 Oh, royal river ! radiant river ! 
 River of Light — river of Life — 
 Thou river of God ! 
 
 JULIETTE. 
 
 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. 
 
 Lo, here the sunshine flickers bright 
 Among the restless shadows, 
 
 And undulating waves of light 
 
 Slip through the tranquil meadows. 
 
 The hoary trees stand ranged about. 
 Their long gray mosses trailing, 
 
 Like ghostly signals long hung out 
 For succor unavailing. 
 
 And marble shafts rise here and there 
 
 In immemorial places, 
 Embalmed in Nature's bosom fair 
 
 And chiselled with Art's graces. 
 
238 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 'Twas here, Juliette, you watched the skies 
 Burn unto evening's splendor. 
 
 And saw the sunset's wondrous dyes 
 Fade into twilight tender. 
 
 And saw the gray go out in gloom 
 
 Upon the brow of even, 
 And smiled to see the young stars bloom 
 
 In the far fields of heaven. 
 ^ -x- * -Jf ^ * 
 
 So comes the winter's breath ; and so 
 
 The spring renews her grasses ; 
 I lift my dazzled eyes, and, lo ! 
 
 The mirage swiftly passes. 
 
 Dear child ! for many a weary year 
 The rose has shed her blossom 
 
 On the white tablet resting here 
 Above thy tranquil bosom. 
 
 And many a season here hath brought 
 
 Processions of new comers, 
 And many a wonder death hath wrought 
 
 Through all these fervid summers. 
 
 And naught remains of thee, Juliette, 
 
 Thy face and form elysian. 
 Save what the whole world will forget, — 
 
 A dreamer' s waking vision ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 REGRET. 
 
 CHRISTIAN REID (FRANCES F. TIERNAN). 
 
 If I had known, O loyal heart, 
 
 When hand to hand we said farewell, 
 
 How for all time our paths would part. 
 What shadow o'er our friendship fell, 
 
 I should have clasped your hand so close 
 In the warm pressure of my own, 
 
 That memory still might keep its grasp, 
 If I had known. 
 
 If I had known, when far and wide 
 We loitered through the summer land, 
 
 What presence wandered by our side. 
 And o'er you stretched its awful hand, 
 
 I should have hushed my careless speech, 
 To listen well to every tone 
 
 That from your lips fell low and sweet, 
 If I had known. 
 
 If I had known, when your kind eyes 
 Met mine in parting, true and sad, — 
 
 Eyes gravely tender, gently wise, 
 
 And earnest rather more than glad, — 
 
 How soon the hds would lie above, 
 As cold and white as sculptured stone, 
 
 I should have treasured every glance. 
 If I had known. 
 
 If I had known how, from the strife 
 Of fears, hopes, passions here below, 
 
 Unto a purer, higher life 
 
 That you were called, O friend, to go, 
 
 239 
 
240 SOATGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 I should have stayed all foolish tears, 
 
 And hushed each idle sigh and moan, 
 To bid you a last, long God-speed, 
 If I had known. 
 
 If I had known to what strange place, 
 What mystic, distant, silent shore, 
 
 You calmly turned your steadfast face. 
 What time your footsteps left my door, 
 
 I should have forged a golden link. 
 To bind the heart, so constant grown, 
 
 And keep it constant even there. 
 If I had known. 
 
 If I had known that, until death 
 
 Shall with his finger touch my brow. 
 
 And still the quickening of the breath 
 
 That stirs with life's full meaning now, — 
 
 So long my feet must tread the way 
 Of our accustomed paths alone, 
 
 I should have prized your presence more, 
 If I had known. 
 
 If I had known how soon for you 
 Drew near the ending of the fight. 
 
 And on your vision, fair and new, 
 Eternal peace dawned into sight, 
 
 I should have begged, as love's last gift. 
 That you before God' s great, white throne 
 
 Would pray for your poor friend on earth. 
 If I had known. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 241 
 
 MY LADDIE'S HOUNDS. 
 
 MARGUERITE E. EASTER. 
 
 They are my laddie's hounds 
 That rin the wood at break o' day. 
 Wha is it tak's them hence ? Can ony say 
 
 Wha is it tak's my laddie's hounds 
 At break o' day ? 
 
 They cleek aff thegither, 
 An' then fa' back, wi' room atween 
 For ane to walk ; sae often, I hae seen 
 
 The baith cleek aff thegither, 
 Wi' ANE between ! 
 
 And when towards the pines 
 Up yonder hill they loup alang, 
 I see ae bonnie laddie, brent and Strang, 
 
 I see ae laddie loup alang 
 Towards the pines. 
 
 I follow them, in mind. 
 Ilk time ; right weel I ken the way, — 
 They thrid the wood and speel the stony brae 
 
 An' skir the field ; I follow them ; 
 I ken the way. 
 
 They daddle at the creek 
 Whaur down fra' aff the reaching logs 
 I stoup, wi' my dear laddie, an' the dogs. 
 
 And drink o' springs that spait the creek 
 Maist to the logs. 
 
 He's but a bairn, a'tho' 
 He hunts the mountain's lonely bree ; 
 His doggies' ears abune their brows in glee 
 
 He ties ; he's but a bairn, a'tho' 
 He hunts the bree. 
 
 q 21 
 
242 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Fu' length they a' stretch out 
 Upon a bank that green trees hap 
 In shade. He whustles saft ; the beagles nap 
 
 Wi' een half shut, a-stretchin' out 
 Whaur green trees hap. 
 
 An' noo he fades awa' 
 Frae 'tween the twa — into the blue. 
 My sight gats blind ; guid Lord, it isna true 
 
 That he has gane for aye awa' , 
 Into the blue ! 
 
 They are my laddie's hounds 
 That mak' the hill at fa' o' day 
 Wi' dowie heads hung laigh ; can ony say 
 
 Wha is it hunts my laddie's hounds 
 Till fa' o' day ? 
 
 THE MESSAGE OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 MRS. M. M. JOUVENAT. 
 
 If to our dull prosaic souls 
 
 No sweet mysterious hope unrolls. 
 
 When the soft petals of the rose 
 
 Their carmine-tinted lips disclose ; 
 
 If from the violets' pleading eyes 
 
 No hints prophetic of the skies 
 
 To our insensate hearts arise ; 
 
 Nor breaks upon our dumb despair 
 
 In odorous pulses of the air 
 
 The rhythmic measure of a prayer : 
 
 If flowers may bloom and wax and wane, 
 
 Nor cheat our human hearts of pain, 
 
 The world is beautiful in vain. 
 
SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 243 
 
 FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 JOHN B. TABB. 
 
 O God, the cleanest offering 
 
 Of tainted earth below, 
 Unblushing to thy feet we bring, — 
 
 " A leper white as snow /" 
 
 INSOMNIA. 
 
 JOHN B. TABB. 
 
 E'en this, Lord, didst thou bless — 
 This pain of sleeplessness— 
 
 The livelong night, 
 Urging God's gentlest angel from thy side, 
 That anguish only might with thee abide 
 
 Until the light. 
 Yea, e'en the last and best, 
 Thy victory and rest. 
 
 Came thus to thee ; 
 For 'twas while others calmly slept around. 
 That thou alone in sleeplessness wast found. 
 
 To comfort me. 
 
 BEETHOVEN AND ANGELO. 
 
 JOHN B. TABB. 
 
 One made the surging sea of tone 
 
 Subservient to his rod : 
 One from the sterile womb of stone 
 
 Raised children unto God. 
 
244 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 KEATS. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS WILSON. 
 
 Death hath his fancies, and why not 1 A king 
 So great as he must have his royal whim, — 
 
 Sometimes a fool, sometimes the wailing string 
 Of some slain minstrel's harp, must humor him. 
 
 There was a youthful singer once, a soul 
 
 Loved of the gods, and hence not loved of men, 
 
 Who sang too well, and, shame to say, the whole 
 Small race of songsters rose against him then. 
 
 And all the critics, too, — like daws that peck 
 Some lustrous jewel from its golden setting, — 
 
 Beaked his fair lines so, hastening on to wreck 
 The fragile bark that every flaw was fretting. 
 
 Love, also, with his barbed baby spear. 
 
 Racked all the chambers of his heart with anguish ; 
 But bravely through it all, more strong and clear. 
 
 Went up his matchless song that would not languish. 
 
 And all so well he pleased the sable king, 
 Though many a famous bard sang at his call. 
 
 That straight he sent his messenger to bring 
 
 This tortured soul which pleased him best of all. 
 
 So Keats was brought, and when his strain beguiled 
 The sad-faced king and his brave company 
 
 To strange, unwonted tears, Death kindly smiled. 
 Approving his unequalled minstrelsy. 
 
 And when at times his watchful eye could trace 
 The swiftly passing spasms of fierce pain 
 
 Which swept across the minstrel's pallid face. 
 He quickly cried, "Thy songs were not in vain ; 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 245 
 
 "Fixed in the world's large memory they shall live, 
 Undying as that beauty to whose shrine 
 
 Thy kneeling soul brought all thou hadst to give ; 
 
 All things of which thy heart once dreamed are thine: 
 
 " As thou didst leave them they shall picture thee 
 Both to thine own and far-off other lands, 
 
 And while men sing, thy name shall never be 
 Forgotten in their songs." And so he stands, 
 
 A fair-formed image of immortal youth 
 
 Breasting the steep hill-side of life's endeavor ; 
 
 A white-robed herald of eternal truth 
 
 Shouting a message from the gods forever. 
 
 I SHALL FIND REST. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS WILSON. 
 
 A LITTLE further on— - 
 There will be time — I shall find rest anon. 
 Thus do we say, while eager youth invites 
 Young hope to try her wings in wanton flights. 
 And nimble fancy builds the soul a nest 
 
 On some far crag ; but soon youth' s flame is g 
 Burned lightly out — while we repeat the jest 
 With smiling confidence, I shall find rest 
 A little further on. 
 
 A little further on 
 I shall find rest ; half-fiercely we avow 
 When noon beats on the dusty field and Care 
 Threats to unjoint our armor, and the glare 
 Throbs with the pulse of battle, while life's best 
 Flies with the flitting stars ; the frenzied brow 
 21* 
 
246 SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Pains for the laurel more than for the breast 
 
 Where Love soft-nestling waits. Not now, not now, 
 With feverish breath we cry, I shall find rest 
 A little further on. 
 
 A little further on 
 I shall find rest ; half-sad, at last, we say. 
 When sorrow's settling cloud blurs out the gleam 
 Of glory's torch, and to a vanished dream 
 
 Love's palace hath been turned, then — all depressed, 
 Despairing, sick at heart — we may not stay 
 Our weary feet, so lonely then doth seem 
 
 This shadow-haunted world. We, so unblest, 
 Weep not to see the grave which waits its guest ; 
 And feeling round our feet the cool, sweet clay. 
 We speak the fading world farewell and say, 
 Not on this side, alas ! I shall find rest 
 A little further on. 
 
 FAIR DAUGHTER OF THE SUN. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS WILSON. 
 
 Hail ! daughter of the sun. 
 White-robed and fair to see, where goest thou now 
 In haste from thy spiced garden ? Hath thy brow, 
 
 Crowned with white blooms, begun 
 To grow aweary of its fragrant wreath, 
 And do thy temples long to ache beneath 
 
 A gilded, iron crown ? 
 Tak'st thou the glint of Mammon's glittering car 
 To be the gleam of some new-risen star — 
 
 Yond clamor, for renown ? 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 247 
 
 Stay, lovely one, oh, stay ! 
 Within thy gates, love-garlanded, remain, 
 For love this Mammon seeks not, but for gain, — 
 
 He is the same alway. 
 This god in burnished tinsel, as of old, 
 Cares for no music save of clinking gold, — 
 
 All else to him is vain. 
 His heart is flint, his ears are dull as lead ; 
 A crown of care he bringeth for thy head, 
 
 And for thy wrists a chain. 
 
 Bide thou, oh, goddess, stay ! 
 Even in the gateway turn. The orange-tree 
 Keeps still her snowy wreath of love for thee ; 
 
 The jasmine's starry spray 
 Still waves thee back. O South ! thy glory lies 
 In thine own sacred fields. There shall arise 
 
 Thy day, which fadeth not : 
 There — patient hands shall fill thy cup with wine, 
 There — hearts devoted make thy name divine, 
 
 Their own hard fate forgot. 
 
 MAHS' LEWIS' LAST RIDE. 
 
 W. W. HENDREE. 
 
 EvvAH sence I kin remembah, 
 
 Dis place belong to the Blan's ; 
 Held about six hun'ded akahs ; 
 
 Wuhkt about twenty-one ban's ; 
 One o' de best o' plantations, — 
 
 Dat's jest as sho as you bo'n ; 
 Raised a great heap o' tobacco, 
 
 Wasn't no eend to de co'n. 
 
248 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 'Longed to Mahs' Dan'l, who raised me, 
 
 Den when he died, our Miss Grace 
 Married huh cousin, Mahs' Lewis, — 
 
 Dat's how he come by de place. 
 He had bin raised in Prince Edwa'd, 
 
 Close on de Buckin'm line — 
 Mighty fine man was Mahs' Lewis ! 
 
 Yes, sah ! he was mighty fine. 
 
 See dat bay hoss in de pastah, 
 
 Dah wid his neck on de fence ? 
 Mo' dan a good many people 
 
 Dat hoss has lahnin' and sense. 
 Favo'ite hoss wid Mahs' Lewis ; 
 
 Offen to me he has said : 
 "I'll ride dat hoss, Uncle Petah, 
 
 Seems to me, ahter I'm dead." 
 
 Mighty quah hoss in de pastah. — 
 
 What fo' he quah ? — You dunno ? 
 Kase o' de bah places on him ? 
 
 Dem's whah de woun's wah, fo' sho. 
 Dat hoss has been in de battle. 
 
 Bin whah de blood's runnin' red ; 
 Dat hoss come back from de battle, 
 
 Totin' de fo'm o' de dead. 
 
 Dis way it happen : De Yankees 
 
 Come yeh dat yeah in great fo'ce ; 
 Grant was dah ginnul commandah, — 
 
 Guv 'em a pow'ful disco' se. 
 All o' de mons'us grand scrimmage. 
 
 We f 'om de po'ch yeh could see, — 
 Yandah was Grant an' de Yankees, 
 
 Yandah de rebels an' Lee. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 249 
 
 Yeh on de po'ch sot de mastah ; 
 
 Yandah smoke rose in de breeze ; 
 Blue an' gray lines in de distance 
 
 Went in an' out o' de trees. 
 Dah we saw light in de distance 
 
 Flashin' — an' 'twasn't de sun's ; 
 Hu'd the bim-boom o' de cannons, 
 
 Hu'd de ping-pang o' de guns. 
 
 Suddintly sung out Mahs' Lewis : 
 
 ' ' Dah ah de cust Yankee curz ! 
 Retch fo'm de hooks dah my sabah ! 
 
 Fetch me my swo'd-belt an' spurz ! 
 Saddle an' bridle Suh Ahchy ! 
 
 Bring him aroun' to de do' ; 
 He'll tote me back safe fo'm de battle, 
 
 Or else I'll come back nevvah mo' !" 
 
 Den I felt bad. S' I, "Mahs' Lewis ! 
 
 Knows you ain't fit fo' de wah ; 
 You ah too ole fo' sich fightin' — 
 
 Bettah stay here whah you ah," 
 S'e — an' his eyes flashed like fox-fire — 
 
 * ' Bring me Suh Ahchy, I say ! 
 One man, dough aged an' feeble, 
 
 Might tu'n de tide o' de day." 
 
 Well, sah, he'd heah to no reason, 
 
 Dahfo' Suh Ahchy I fotched ; 
 An' when he rid off down de high-road, 
 
 Yeh I sot patient and watched. 
 Watched yeh, an' lissent, an' lissent, 
 
 Hea'in' de rattle an' ro' ; 
 Seein' em, backwa'd an' fo'wa'd. 
 
 Blue an' gray lines come an' go. 
 
250 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 So dey fit dah all o' de daylight. 
 
 Fit 'twell de sun had gone down ; 
 Den come de dahkness an' silence 
 
 Shadin' de whole place aroun'. 
 Yeh on de po'ch I sot waitin', 
 
 Waitin', an' dreckly I heah 
 Clank o' dat swo'd on de saddle, 
 
 Ring o' dat hoss comin' neah. 
 
 Fastah an' fastah I heah 'em, 
 
 Poundin' an' poundin' de groun' — 
 " Lo'd be praised, dat's Mahs' Lewis !" — 
 
 Dat I knowed well by de soun' ; 
 Up in a gallop, Suh Ahchy 
 
 Come to de po'ch, den he stan' : 
 Dah in de saddle, Mahs' Lewis 
 
 Sot like a captain so gran' ! 
 
 " Welcome back ! Welcome, Mahs' Lewis! 
 
 Bet you made somumum die ! 
 S'pose you 'light dah at de hoss-block ; 
 
 Dat's a heap easier," s' I. 
 Seein' he made me no ansah, 
 
 Tetched him — Lo'd ! how I did staht ! 
 Dah he sot, stiff in de saddle — 
 
 Dead, sah ! shot right froo de heaht ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 25 1 
 
 THE ORIGIN OF THE FIDDLE. 
 
 IRWIN RUSSELL. 
 
 (From " Christmas-night in the Quarters.") 
 
 Go 'way, fiddle ! folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin' ; 
 Keep silence fur yo' betters ! — don't you heah de banjo 
 talkin' ? 
 
 About de 'possum's tail she's gwine to lecter — ladies, 
 
 listen ! — 
 About de ha'r whut isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin' : 
 
 " Dar's gwine to be a' oberflow," said Noah, lookin' 
 
 solemn, — 
 Fur Noah tuk the "Herald," an' he read de ribber 
 
 column, — 
 An' so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl'arin' timber-patches. 
 An 'lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat the steamah 
 
 Natchez. 
 
 or Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawin* ; 
 
 An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin' an' a- 
 
 pshawin' ; 
 But Noah didn't min' 'em, knowin* whut wuz gwine to 
 
 happen : 
 An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappin'. 
 
 Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob eb'ry sort o' 
 
 beas'es, — 
 Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces ! 
 He had a Morgan colt an' seb'ral head o' Jarsey cattle, — 
 An' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon's he heeredde thunder 
 
 rattle. 
 
 Den sech anoder fall ob rain ! — it come so awful hebby, 
 De ribber riz immejitly, an* busted troo de lebbee ; 
 
252 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 De people all wuz drownded out — 'cep' Noah an' de 
 
 critters, 
 An' men he'd hired to work de boat — an' one to mix de 
 
 bitters. 
 
 De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin' an' a-sailin' ; 
 De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin' ; 
 De sarpints hissed ; de painters yelled ; tell, whut wid all 
 
 de fussin', 
 You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' 'roun' an' 
 
 cussin'. 
 
 Now, Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin' on de 
 
 packet, 
 Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'dn't stan' de 
 
 racket ; 
 An' so, fur to amuse hese'f, he steamed some wood an' 
 
 bent it. 
 An' soon he had a banjo made — de fust dat wuz invented. 
 
 He wet de ledder, stretched it on ; made bridge an' screws 
 
 an' aprin ; 
 An' fitted in a proper neck — 'twuz berry long an' tap'rin' ; 
 He tuk some tin, an' twisted him a thimble fur to ring it ; 
 An' den de mighty question riz : how wuz he gwine to 
 
 string it ? 
 
 De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin' ; 
 
 De ha'r's so long an' think an' strong, — des fit fur banjo- 
 
 stringin' ; 
 Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as washday-dinner 
 
 graces ; 
 An' sorted ob 'em by de size, f'om little E's to basses. 
 
 He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig, — 'twuz " Nebber 
 
 min' de wedder, " — 
 She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togedder ; 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 253 
 
 Some went to pattin' ; some to dancin' ; Noah called de 
 
 figgers ; 
 An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob 
 
 niggers ! 
 
 Now, sence dat time — it's mighty strange — dere's not de 
 
 slightes' showin' 
 Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin' ; 
 An' curi's, too, dat's nigger's ways : his people nebber 
 
 los' 'em, — 
 Fur whar you finds de nigger — dar's de banjo an' de 
 
 'possum ! 
 
 A BLESSING ON THE DANCE. 
 
 IRWIN RUSSELL. 
 
 (From " Christmas-night in the Quarters.") 
 
 O Mahs'r ! let dis gath'rin' fin' a blessin' in yo' sight ! 
 Don't jedge us hard fur what we does — you knows it's 
 
 Chrismus-night ; 
 An' all de balunce of de yeah we does as right's we kin, 
 Ef dancin' s wrong, O Mahs'r ! let de time excuse de sin ! 
 
 We labors in de vineya'd, wu'kin' hard an' wu'kin' true ; 
 Now, shorely you won't notus ef we eats a grape or two, 
 An' takes a leetle holiday, — a leetle restin' -spell, — 
 Bekase, nex' week, we'll start in fresh, an' labor twicet as 
 well. 
 
 Remember, Mahs'r, — min' dis, now, — de sinfulness ob sin 
 Is 'pendin' 'pon de sperrit what we goes an' does it in : 
 An' in a righchis frame ob min' we's gwine to dance an' 
 
 sing, 
 A-feelin' like King David when he cut de pigeon-wing. 
 
 22 
 
254 
 
 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 It seems to me — indeed it do — I mebbe mout be wrong — 
 That people r'aly ought to dance when Chrismus comes 
 
 along ; 
 Des dance bekase dey's happy — like de birds hops in de 
 
 trees, 
 De pine-top fiddle soundin' to de bowin' ob de breeze. 
 
 We has no ark to dance afore, like Isrul's prophet king ; 
 We has no harp to soun' de chords, to holp us out to sing ; 
 But 'cordin' to de gif s we has we does de bes' we knows, 
 An' folks don't 'spise de vi' let-flower bekase it ain't de 
 rose. 
 
 You bless us, please, sah, eben ef we's doin' wrong to- 
 night ; 
 
 Kase den we'll need de blessin' more 'n ef we's doin' 
 right ; 
 
 An' let de blessin' stay wid us, untel we comes to die, 
 
 An' goes to keep our Chrismus wid dem sheriffs in de sky ! 
 
 Yes, tell dem preshis anguls we's a-gwine to jine 'em soon : 
 Our voices we's a-trainin' fur to sing de glory tune ; 
 We's ready when you wants us, an' it ain't no matter when — 
 O Mahs'r ! call yo' chillun soon, an' take 'em home! 
 Amen. 
 
 COUNSEL. 
 
 MOLLIE E. MOORE DAVIS. 
 
 If thou shouldst bid thy friend farewell — 
 
 But for one night though that farewell may be — 
 
 Press thou his palm with thine. How canst thou tell 
 How far from thee 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 255 
 
 Fate or caprice may lead his feet 
 
 Ere that to-morrow come ! Men have been known 
 To hghtly turn the corner of a street, 
 
 And days have grown 
 
 To months, and months to lagging years. 
 Before they looked in loving eyes again. 
 
 Parting at best is underlaid with tears, 
 With tears and pain. 
 
 Therefore, lest sudden death should come between. 
 Or time, or distance, clasp with pressure true 
 
 The hand of him who goeth forth. Unseen 
 Fate goeth too. 
 
 Yea, find thou always time to say 
 
 Some earnest word between the idle talk. 
 
 Lest with thee henceforth, night and day, 
 Regret should walk. 
 
 GOING OUT AND COMING IN. 
 
 MOLLIE E. MOORE DAVIS. 
 
 Going out to fame and triumph, 
 
 Going out to love and hght ; 
 Coming in to pain and sorrow, 
 
 Coming in to gloom and night. 
 Going out with joy and gladness, 
 
 Coming in with woe and sin ; 
 Ceaseless stream of restless pilgrims 
 
 Going out and coming in ! 
 
 Through the portals of the homestead, 
 From beneath the blooming vine ; 
 
 To the trumpet-tones of glory. 
 
 Where the bays and laurels twine ; 
 
256 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 From the loving home-caresses 
 To the chill voice of the world, — 
 
 Going out with gallant canvas 
 To the summer breeze unfurled. 
 
 Through the gateway, down the footpath, 
 
 Through the lilacs by the way ; 
 Through the clover by the meadow. 
 
 Where the gentle home-lights stray ; 
 To the wide world of ambition. 
 
 Up the toilsome hill of fame, 
 Winning oft a mighty triumph. 
 
 Winning oft a noble name. 
 
 Coming back all worn and weary, — 
 
 Weary with the world's cold breath ; 
 Coming to the dear old homestead, 
 
 Coming in to age and death. 
 Weary of its empty flattery. 
 
 Weary of its ceaseless din ; 
 Weary of its heartless sneering,— 
 
 Coming from the bleak world in. 
 
 Going out with hopes of glory. 
 
 Coming in with sorrows dark ; 
 Going out with sails all flying. 
 
 Coming in with mastless barque ; 
 Restless stream of pilgrims, striving 
 
 Wreaths of fame and love to win, 
 From the doorways of the homestead 
 
 Going out and coming in ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 257 
 
 UNCLE GABE'S WHITE FOLKS. 
 
 THOMAS NELSON PAGE, 
 
 Sarvent, Marster ! Yes, sah, dat's me, — 
 
 Ole Unc' Gabe's my name ; 
 I thankee, Marster, I'm 'bout, yo' see. 
 
 "An' de ole 'ooman?" She's much de same, 
 Po'ly an' 'plainin', thank de Lord ! 
 But de Marster' s gwine ter come back from 'broad. 
 
 "Fine ole place?" Yes, sah, 'tis so ; 
 
 An' mighty fine people my white folks war, — 
 But you ought ter 'a' seen it years ago, 
 
 When de Marster an' Mistis lived up dyah ; 
 When de niggers 'd stan' all roun' de do', 
 Like grains o' corn on de cornhouse flo' . 
 
 " Live mons'ous high ?" Yes, Marster, yes ; 
 
 Cut 'n onroyal 'n' gordly dash ; 
 Eat an' drink till you couldn' res'. 
 
 My folks war'n' none o' yo' po' white trash ; 
 No, sah, dey was ob high degree, — 
 Dis heah nigger am quality ! 
 
 "Tell you 'bout 'em?" You mus' 'a' hearn 
 
 'Bout my ole white folks, sho' ! 
 I tell you, suh, dey was gre't an' stern ; 
 D' didn' have nuttin' at all to learn ; 
 
 D' knowed all dar was to know ; 
 Gol' ober de' head an' onder dey feet ; 
 An' silber ! dey sowed 't like folks sows wheat. 
 
 " Use ter be rich ?" Dat warn' de wud ! 
 
 Jes' wallowed an' roll' in wealf. 
 Why, none o' my white folks ever stir'd 
 
 Ter lif a han' for d'self ; 
 r 22* 
 
258 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 De niggers use ter be stan'in' roun' 
 
 Jes' d' same ez leaves when dey fus' fall down ; 
 
 De stable-stalls up heah at home 
 
 Looked like de teef in a fine-toof comb ; 
 
 De cattle was p'digious — mus' tell de fac' ! 
 
 An' de hogs mecked de hill-sides look like black 
 
 An' de flocks ob sheep was so gre't an' white 
 
 Dey 'peared like clouds on a moonshine night. 
 
 An' when my ole Mistis use' ter walk 
 
 Jes' ter her kerridge (dat was fur 
 
 Ez ever she walked) — I tell you, sir, 
 You could almos' heah her silk dress talk ; 
 Hit use' ter soun' like de mornin' breeze, 
 When it wakes an' rustles de Gre't House trees. 
 An' de Marster's face ! — de Marster's face, 
 
 Whenever de Marster got right pleased — 
 Well, I 'clar' ter Gord, 'twould shine wid grace 
 
 De same ez his countenance had been greased. 
 De cellar, too, had de bes' ob wine, 
 An' brandy, an' sperrits dat yo' could fine ; 
 An' ev'ything in dyah was stored, 
 'Skusin' de Glory of de Lord ! 
 
 ' ' Warn' dyah a son ?' ' Yes, sah, you knows 
 
 He s de young Marster now ; 
 But we heah dat dey tooken he very clo' es 
 
 Ter pay what ole Marster owe ; 
 He's done been gone ten year, I s'pose. 
 But he's comin' back some day, of co'se ; 
 An' my ole 'ooman is aluz 'pyar'd. 
 
 An' meckin' de Blue-Room baid ; 
 An' ev'ry day dem sheets is ayar'd, 
 
 An' will be till she' s daid ; 
 An' de styars she'll scour. 
 
 An' dat room she'll ten', 
 
 Ev'ry blessed day dat de Lord do sen' ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 259 
 
 What say, Marster ? Yo' say you knows ? 
 
 He's young an' slender-like an' fyah ; 
 Better-lookin' 'n you, of co'se ! 
 Hi ! you's he ? 'Fo' Gord, 'tis him ! 
 
 'Tis de very voice an' eyes an' hyah, 
 An' mouf an' smile, on'y yo' ain' so slim, — 
 I wonder whah — whah' s de ole ' ooman ? 
 Now let my soul 
 
 Depart in peace, 
 For I behol' 
 Dy glory, Lord ! — I knowed you, chile, — 
 
 I knowed you soon's I see'd your face ! 
 Whar has you been dis blessed while ? 
 
 Done come back an' buy de place ? 
 
 Oh, bless de Lord for all His grace ! 
 De ravins shell hunger, an' shell not lack, 
 De Marster, de young Marster' s done come back ! 
 
 SUCCESS. 
 
 MARGARET A. LOGAN. 
 
 I FANCIED her a fair and flower-crowned maid 
 
 Compassed with rosy light. 
 And at her shrine youth, hope, and fortune laid ; 
 
 She never blessed my sight. 
 
 So passed the years, and I, grown old and gray. 
 
 Thought not her wreath to wear. 
 For death had borne the loving friends away 
 
 Who joyed my joy to share. 
 
 'Twas then a calm-eyed, low-voiced woman came 
 
 That dreary hour to bless ; 
 I gently greeted, and besought her name : 
 
 Smiling, she said, "Success." 
 
26o SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 "THE GRAVES STOOD TENANTLESS." 
 
 MEL R. COLQUITT. 
 FIRST SPIRIT. 
 
 I WANDERED back to-night to that dear land, 
 
 I stood unseen beside him in our best-loved place, 
 
 He, eyes aflame with love, caressed a woman's hand. 
 And kissed her warmly on her rose-hued face. 
 
 ' ' And have you never loved ?' ' she said, with kiss for 
 kiss ; 
 
 "No, dearest ; love comes only once like this." 
 
 SECOND SPIRIT. 
 
 I journeyed where my precious children slept, 
 I knew that they must need my watchful care ; 
 
 Another sat beside — I turned and wept. 
 Finding no room for my wan spirit there, 
 
 All was unchanged — all looked and felt the same, 
 
 The babe, awakening, called her by my name ! 
 
 THIRD SPIRIT. 
 
 I sought my once adoring wife to see, 
 
 I thought to find her with her beads and priest, 
 
 Praying and weeping for the loss of me. 
 Lo ! she was centre of a merry feast ; 
 
 She singled out one lover, gaily, from the rest, 
 
 With cup uplifted, toasted, " To second love, the best." 
 
 FOURTH SPIRIT. 
 
 I went to where my childless mother sat alone, 
 
 In a vast, sunless, and unpeopled place ; 
 Her form was shaken with her ceaseless moan. 
 
 And cruel grief still wrung her piteous face. 
 Nearer I pressed to her, stood close beside. 
 She murmured, " Darling, when you went, the whole 
 world died !" 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 261 
 
 MY SORROW. 
 
 R. T. W. DUKE, JR. 
 
 " My loss is great," you say, "but time will heal ; 
 
 Spring's sorrows deaden ere the death of spring ; 
 
 And this which now is such a bitter thing 
 The coming years will in their flight reveal 
 To be but sweetness ! Death has set its seal 
 
 Upon a dear life's casket. Faith will bring 
 
 The bud that springs in tears, to blossoming 
 
 In joy " Oh, platitudes ! Do I not feel 
 
 The smart already lessening, now the blow 
 
 Has fallen ? — can it comfort me, oh, friend, 
 Grieving as I alone can grieve, to know 
 
 That even grief will have at last its end. 
 And sadness for her loss grow less to-morrow,- 
 My sorrow is I can forget my sorrow ! 
 
 BESIDE LOVE'S BIER. 
 
 R. T. W. DUKE, JR. 
 
 Men came and wondered, when he died, 
 
 And stood with wet eyes by his bier. 
 ' ' We never dreamed, ' ' some wildly cried, 
 
 " That Love could die, he was so dear ;" 
 Some only looked awhile and sighed, 
 
 Then went their way ; they had no tear ; 
 One moaned : "I've wandered far and near. 
 
 And sought for Love, and would have died 
 For his sweet sake — I find him here ;" 
 
 Another kissed his cold white brow ; 
 
262 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 "Farewell," he cried, "thou wilt not move 
 Eternal slumber holds thee now ; 
 
 No resurrection comes for Love !" 
 But one who stood apart a space 
 
 Drew near him gently, ' ' Love, ' ' said he, 
 " He never truly knew thy face 
 
 Who saw thee dead nor died with thee." 
 
 THE VULTURE. 
 
 HARRY STILWELL EDWARDS. 
 
 All the day long we roam, we roam, 
 
 My shadow fleet and I ; 
 One searches all the land and sea. 
 
 And one the trackless sky ; 
 But when the taint of death ascends 
 
 My airy flight to greet. 
 As friends around the festal board. 
 
 We meet ! we meet ! we meet ! 
 
 Ah ! none can read the sign we read. 
 
 No eye can fathom the gales. 
 No tongue can whisper our secret deed, 
 
 For dead men tell no tales. 
 The spot on the plains is miles away ; 
 
 But our wings are broad and fleet, — 
 The wave-tossed speck in the eye of the day 
 
 Is far — ^but we meet ! we meet ! 
 
 The voice of the battle is haste, oh, haste ! 
 
 And down the wind we speed ; 
 The voice of the wreck moans up from the deep, 
 
 And we search the rank sea weed. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 263 
 
 The maiden listens the Hvelong day 
 
 For the fall of her lover' s feet ; 
 She wonders to see us speeding by, — 
 
 She would die, if she saw us meet ! 
 
 l' ENVOI. 
 
 Sweeping in circles, my shadow and I, 
 Leaving no mark on the land or sky, 
 When the double circles are all complete. 
 At the bedside of death we meet ! we meet ! 
 
 A SEASIDE FLIRTATION. 
 
 SAMUEL MINTURN PECK. 
 
 With sorrow in her eyes of blue, 
 
 With trembling hands she slowly penned it ; 
 The little parting billet-doux 
 
 That conscience told her now should end it. 
 Those tete-a tetes along the shore, 
 
 Those gipsyings with fern-filled basket, 
 Must join the dear delights of yore 
 
 And only live in memory' s casket. 
 
 There never was a heart like Jack's : 
 
 He told his passion in his glances. 
 She sealed her note with scented wax, 
 
 But could not drown her dismal fancies. 
 When he should read his suit denied, 
 
 So long the theme of idle gazers, 
 She pictured him a suicide. 
 
 And shuddered at the thought of razors ! 
 
 At last she slept — but not till dawn 
 
 Had blossomed through the ocean vapors. 
 
 Jack conned her missive with a yawn 
 When he had read the morning papers. 
 
264 SONGS' OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 He gave his beard a languid twirl, 
 And murmured, as he sat a-smoking, 
 
 ' ' Tear-stained — By Jove ! — poor little girl — 
 I thought she knew that I was joking !" 
 
 A SONG FOR THE SOUTH. 
 
 SAMUEL MINTURN PECK. 
 
 O PEERLESS land of tears and smiles, 
 Of fragrant glooms and golden hours. 
 
 Where Summer's hand with endless wiles 
 Entwines the feet of Time with flowers, 
 
 Howe'er the tide of fortune flow, 
 
 Thou hast my heart where'er I go ! 
 
 No blot of shame thy record mars 
 
 In senate-hall or lurid fight : 
 Thy spotless fame shines like the stars 
 
 That guard thee through the balmy night. 
 In weary wanderings to and fro, 
 Thou hast my heart where'er I go. 
 
 Thy maids are fair, thy warriors brave. 
 And those at peace beneath the pine, 
 
 Hymned through the air by wind and wave. 
 Their glory needs no song of mine. 
 
 O native Land ! through weal and woe. 
 
 Thou hast my heart where'er I go. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 265 
 
 BESSIE BROWN, M.D. 
 
 SAMUEL MINTURN PECK. 
 
 'TWAS April when she came to town ; 
 
 The birds had come, the bees were swarming ; 
 Her name, she said, was Doctor Brown : 
 
 I saw at once that she was charming. 
 She took a cottage tinted green. 
 
 Where dewy roses loved to mingle ; 
 And on the door next day was seen 
 
 A dainty little shingle. 
 
 Her hair was like an amber wreath ; 
 
 Her hat was darker, to enhance it. 
 The violet eyes that glowed beneath 
 
 Were brighter than her keenest lancet. 
 The beauties of her glove and gown 
 
 The sweetest rhyme would fail to utter ; 
 Ere she had been a day in town 
 
 The town was in a flutter. 
 
 The gallants viewed her feet and hands. 
 
 And swore they never saw such wee things ; 
 The gossips met in purring bands 
 
 And tore her piecemeal o'er the tea-things. 
 The former drank the Doctor' s health 
 
 With clinking cups, the gay carousers ; 
 The latter watched her door by stealth. 
 
 Just Hke so many mousers. 
 
 But Doctor Bessie went her way 
 
 Unmindful of the spiteful cronies. 
 And drove her buggy every day 
 
 Behind a dashing pair of ponies. 
 M 23 
 
266 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Her flower-like face so bright she bore, 
 I hoped that time might never wilt her ; 
 
 The way she tripped across the floor 
 Was better than a philter. 
 
 Her patients thronged the village street ; 
 
 Her snowy slate was always quite full ; 
 Some said her bitters tasted sweet, 
 
 And some pronounced her pills delightful. 
 'Twas strange — I knew not what it meant — 
 
 She seemed a nymph from Eldorado ; 
 Whene'er she came, where'er she went, 
 
 Grief lost its gloomy shadow. 
 
 Like all the rest, I too grew ill ; 
 
 My aching heart there was no quelling : 
 I tremble at my doctor' s bill, — 
 
 And, lo ! the items still are sweUing. 
 The drugs I've drunk you'd weep to hear ! 
 
 They've quite enriched the fair concocter, 
 And I'm a ruined man, I fear, 
 
 Unless — I wed the Doctor ! 
 
 THE CAPTAIN'S FEATHER. 
 
 SAMUEL MINTURN PECK. 
 
 The dew is on the heather. 
 
 The moon is in the sky, 
 And the captain' s waving feather 
 
 Proclaims the hour is nigh 
 When some upon their horses 
 
 Shall through the battle ride. 
 And some with bleeding corses 
 
 Must on the heather bide. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 267 
 
 The dust is on the heather, 
 
 The moon is in the sky, 
 And about the captain' s feather 
 
 The bolts of battle fly. 
 But hark ! What sudden wonder 
 
 Breaks forth upon the gloom ? 
 It is the cannon's thunder, — 
 
 It is the voice of doom ! 
 
 The blood is on the heather. 
 
 The night is in the sky, 
 And the gallant captain' s feather 
 
 Shall wave no more on high. 
 The grave and holy brother 
 
 To God is saying mass ; 
 But who shall tell his mother, 
 
 And who shall tell his lass ? 
 
 EBO. 
 
 A. C. GORDON. 
 
 All o' dese here doin's 
 
 Don't suit me ; 
 Ise an ole-time nigger. 
 
 Don't you see ? 
 
 Dis here eddication's 
 
 Humbug, sho' ; 
 It's done played de devil 
 
 Wid Ebo, 
 
 Somewhar 'bout lars' summer, 
 
 Dicey she 
 Tuk 'n' struck a notion. 
 
 Don't you see ? 
 
268 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Says she : " I's been thinkin'.*' 
 
 An' I says : 
 ' ' What you done thunk, honey ?' 
 
 Says she : ' ' Yes, 
 
 " I's been thinkin' mons'ous 
 
 'Bout Ebo ; 
 He's fo'teen year ole now, 
 
 Don't you know ?" 
 
 S' I : " Ole 'oman, you is 
 
 Right, I 'spec' ; 
 Dar's fo'teen, he kim fus' ; 
 
 Dat's kerrec' !" 
 
 Says she : " He's a-growin' 
 
 Up a fool ; 
 An' I's gwine ter sen' him 
 
 Ter de school." 
 
 Bein's how it looked Hke 
 
 She was bent 
 On the projeck, Ebo 
 
 Tuk 'n' went. 
 
 An' since dat lars' summer, 
 
 Don't you see ? 
 Dat 'ar boy have p'int'ly 
 
 Outdone me ! 
 
 Whe — ew ! de norrations, 
 
 Dem o' his'n ! 
 Umph ! I busses laughin' 
 
 Jes ter lissen ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 269 
 
 What you think dat Ebo 
 
 Come tell me ? 
 Dat all dis here y'arth here — 
 
 Flat, you see — 
 
 Dat it's roun' an' rolls jes' 
 
 Like a ball ! 
 " Ebo, dat's a He," I 
 
 Says, " dat's all ! 
 
 "Don't yer see yer mammy, 
 
 Every night. 
 Set de water-piggin 
 
 Out o' sight 
 
 * ' Ob you chillun, up dar 
 
 On de shelf? 
 Now, Mars' SpeUin' -booker, 
 
 'Splain yerself. 
 
 " Sunrise, dat ar water's 
 
 In dar still ; 
 Ef de y'arth turned over. 
 
 It 'ud spill !" 
 
 But he keeps resistin' 
 
 It are so : 
 Eddication's done gone 
 
 Sp'ilt Ebo. 
 
 He's forever tellin' 
 
 Some sich lie ; 
 He's gwi' fin' out better 
 
 By-um-by. 
 
 23* 
 
2 70 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Ef Ebo keeps rarnin' 
 
 At dat school, 
 Nex' thing he'll be provin' 
 
 Fs a fool ! 
 
 I are p'int'ly gwine ter 
 
 Take Ebo 
 'Way f om dat 'ar school' ouse, 
 
 Sart'in sho' ! 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S FATE. 
 
 WILLIAM H. HAYNE. 
 
 Deeming that love and hope no more 
 Would come to him on sea or shore, 
 In some fierce fray he longed to die ; 
 But death, disdainful, passed him by. 
 
 And when, at last, glad tidings came, 
 The homeward call to love and fame, 
 Close to a fen of poisonous breath 
 The soldier met an ambushed death ! 
 
 WORTHINESS. 
 
 CHARLES J. O'mALLEY. 
 
 Whatever lacks purpose is evil ; a pool without pebbles 
 
 breeds slime ; 
 Not any one step hath chance fashioned on the infinite 
 
 stairway of time ; 
 Nor ever came good without labor, in toil, or in science, 
 
 or art ; 
 It must be wrought out thro' the muscles — born out of the 
 
 soul and the heart. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 271 
 
 Why plough in the stubble with ploughshares ? Why win- 
 now the chaff from the grain ? 
 
 Ah, since all of His gifts must be toiled for, since truth is 
 not born without pain ! 
 
 He giveth not to the unworthy, the weak, or the foolish in 
 deeds ; 
 
 Who soweth but chaff at the seed-time shall reap but a 
 harvest of weeds. 
 
 As the pyramid builded of vapor is blown by His whirl- 
 winds to naught, 
 
 So the song without truth is forgotten : His poem to man 
 is man's thought. 
 
 Whatever is strong with a purpose in humbleness wrought 
 and soul-pure, 
 
 Is known to the Master of Singers : He toucheth it, saying, 
 " Endure." 
 
 ST. AUGUSTINE. 
 
 MONTGOMERY M. FOLSOM. 
 
 A CITY built upon the sands, 
 St. Augustine, the ancient, stands. 
 Eastward, the black Matanzas' wave ; 
 Westward, Sabastian's waters lave 
 The marshes stretching toward the main. 
 Landward, a waste of barren plain. 
 So grim, so gray, and old, it seems 
 A realm of half-remembered dreams. 
 
 Where rose her walls there's scarce a clod 
 Aspires above the levelled sod ; 
 Where trails and clambers, wild and free. 
 The fragrant rose of Cherokee, 
 
2 72 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 And clumps of stunted cedars grow ; 
 Gnarled willows in the moat below 
 Whose depth now measures scarce a span, 
 Shallow as vaunt of boasting man ! 
 
 Twin shafts of crumbling brick and stone, 
 The ancient gate-way stands alone ; 
 Around those once commanding towers, 
 ■ Now cling the golden jasmine flowers ; 
 While through yon great breach, yawning wide, 
 Oozes a stream whose listless tide. 
 Emboldened by the sad decay, 
 Unchallenged winds its sluggish way. 
 
 Fair even in age the Plaza gay. 
 
 Where fountains shower their crystal spray. 
 
 And wreaths of odorous orange bloom 
 
 Burden the air with rich perfume, 
 
 And whispering south winds sway and toss 
 
 The long festoons of sombre moss, 
 
 In shaded nooks where sunbeams play 
 
 At hide-and-seek the livelong day. 
 
 But blackened ruins mark the spot — 
 On this fair scene the only blot — 
 Where once the old slave-market stood 
 When trafficjced men in human blood, 
 And Afric' s sons were bought and sold 
 Like sheep and swine for Spanish gold ; 
 And rude Oppression forced apart 
 The tenderest ties that bind the heart ! 
 
 Down by the placid river' s marge, 
 
 Where sloop and schooner, bark and barge. 
 
 And gilded yacht at anchor lie, 
 
 And white-winged gulls are circling high, 
 
SO.VGS OF THE SOUTH. 273 
 
 Seaward the current sets, and fast 
 The ebbing tide goes rushing past ; 
 The waves along the old sea wall, 
 In rhythmic cadence, rise and fall. 
 
 With awe and reverence strong and deep, 
 I mount that castellated steep, 
 Beneath whose portals, roughly arched, 
 The mail-clad Spaniard proudly marched. 
 While boom of thunderous cannon rolled. 
 And storms of martial music told 
 That Spain's broad banner still unfurled 
 Its conquering folds o'er half the world ! 
 
 The mitred abbot chanted here 
 The glad Te Deum loud and clear. 
 And St. lago' s name was praised 
 While trumpets rang and bonfires blazed. 
 Within this court-yard's ample space 
 Proud Valor paid to Beauty' s grace. 
 On bended knee, the homage due 
 From loyal knight to lady true. 
 
 Above yon rugged arch I trace 
 
 Lines that all time can ne'er efface, — 
 
 Deep graven in the dark gray stone 
 
 The royal seal of Arragon ! 
 
 And just below the graver wrote 
 
 A name that like a bugle-note 
 
 Stirred many a heart, nerved many a hand, 
 
 The kingly name of Ferdinand ! 
 
 Deserted now each vaulted room 
 And voiceless is the donjon' s gloom ; 
 My footsteps in the lonely keep 
 Disturb the hermit echoes' sleep. 
 
2 74 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Th' " Alerta !" of the sentinel 
 
 Is heard no more ; the castle-bell 
 
 Is hushed ; and 'neath the turret's crest 
 
 A brooding screech owl builds her nest. 
 
 Within that tower I sit and gaze 
 To'ard the dull bank of purple haze 
 Where earth and sky and ocean meet, 
 And wild Atlantic billows beat 
 Upon the bar, where ghastly white 
 The sand dunes glisten in the light. 
 Like some dead isle's gaunt skeleton 
 Left bleaching, crumbling, in the sun. 
 
 But day is dying ! Swift and fleet 
 The twilight speeds with flying feet. 
 While Anastasia' s shores grow dim 
 Old Ocean chants his vesper hymn. 
 A widowed seabird sadly croons 
 Her dismal lay among the dunes ; 
 A thousand stars in silvery sheen 
 Look down on old St. Augustine. 
 
 THE DINNER-HORN. 
 
 W. T. DUMAS. 
 
 When lazy dials point to noon, 
 
 And clocks are chiming out the hour ; 
 
 When sable Phyllis 'gins to croon. 
 And pigeons nod upon the tower, 
 
 Black Tom, beneath the spreading tree 
 That shades the pleasant farmhouse yard, 
 
 Looks out across the shimmering lea, 
 And blows the bugle long and hard. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 275 
 
 Blow, bugler ! let the echoes float 
 
 The fields and woodland slopes along, 
 
 Till every wild but mellow note 
 Bursts on the distant hills in song. 
 
 Sound thro' the valleys, cool and green. 
 Where tinkling brooklets purl and creep ; 
 
 Sound where the nodding flowers are seen. 
 And wake the poppy from its sleep ! 
 
 Where cattle drink by shady streams, 
 Where wave the yellow fields of wheat. 
 
 Where ploughboys drive their sweating teams, 
 Send out thy notes prolonged and sweet. 
 
 The laborer casts aside his hoe, 
 
 The horse, delighted, 'gins to neigh ; 
 
 What says the bugle, well they know. 
 Although it speaks a mile away. 
 
 " Come to the cool and dripping well. 
 
 And at its mossy curbstone kneel 
 And lave thy sweaty face a spell, 
 
 And eat the simple noonday meal. 
 
 ' ' There' s cider from the oaken press, 
 
 Hid in the cellar, dark and old ; 
 There's many a sweet you cannot guess, 
 
 There's tempting cream the hue of gold." 
 
 Sing, bugle, sing with all thy power, 
 
 And let thy last note be the best ! 
 Thou hast announced the golden hour. 
 
 The noonday's hour of drowsy rest. 
 
276 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 bugle of the good old days, 
 Forever silent in the South ; 
 
 Poor Tom has grown too weak to raise 
 Unto his lips thy mellow mouth. 
 
 No darkey of the younger brood, 
 Tho' he should blow his lungs away. 
 
 Can send afloat, o'er field and wood. 
 The notes that he was wont to play. 
 
 The songs the red-lipped maidens sing 
 Along my pulses bound and thrill ; 
 
 They charm, but no such pictures bring 
 As that old bugle on the hill. 
 
 1 seem again with blushing June 
 
 To stand amid the fields of corn. 
 Whene'er, thro' languid airs of noon, 
 I hear the distant bugle-horn. 
 
 And, oh ! I sigh for boyhood's time, 
 For our old homestead on the hill. 
 
 And for the drowsy, droning rhyme 
 Sung by the busy water-mill. 
 
 The cherry's blood was richer then, 
 The peach was of a deeper hue ; 
 
 And I have wondered if again 
 The skies can ever be so blue. 
 
 Ah ! could I be again a boy. 
 
 And could I be where I was born, 
 
 I'd kiss thy lips with reverent joy. 
 And hug thee, battered bugle-horn ! 
 
SOATGS OF THE SOUTH. 277 
 
 THE LOVE-FEAST AT WAYCROSS. 
 
 FRANK L. STANTON. 
 
 It was in the town o' Waycross, not many weeks ago, 
 They had a big revival there, as hke enough you know ; 
 An' though many was converted an' fer pardon made to 
 
 call. 
 Yet the Sunday mornin' love-feast was the happiest time 
 
 o' all. 
 
 'Twas a great experience meetin', an' it done me good 
 
 to hear 
 The brotherin an' the sisterin that talked religion there ; 
 You didn't have to ax 'em, ner coax 'em with a song ; 
 Them people had religion, an' they told it right along ! 
 
 Thar was one, a hard old sinner, — 'pears like I knowed 
 
 his name, 
 But I reckon I've forgot it — who to the altar came ; 
 An* he took the leader by the han' , with beamin' face an' 
 
 bright, 
 An' said, "I'm comin' home, dear fr'en's ; I'm comin' 
 
 home to-night !" 
 
 Then a woman rose an' axed to be remembered in their 
 
 prayers : 
 "My husband's comin' hom^e," said she, a-sheddin' 
 
 thankful tears ; 
 "I want you all to pray fer him; he's lived in sin's 
 
 control. 
 But I think the love o' Jesus is a-breakin' on his soul !" 
 
 Any shoutin' ? Well, I reckon so ! One brother give a 
 
 shout : 
 Said he had so much religion he was 'bliged to let it out ! 
 
 24 
 
278 SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 An' the preacher j'ined the chorus, sayin', " Brotherin, 
 
 let 'er roll ! 
 A man can't keep from shoutin' with religion in his soul !" 
 
 I tell you, 'twas a happy time ; I wished 'twould never 
 
 end : 
 Each sinner in the church that day had Jesus fer a friend ; 
 But a good old deacon said to 'em, while tears stood in 
 
 his eye : 
 "There's a better time 'an this, dear fr'en's, a-comin' by 
 
 an' by !" 
 
 I hope some day those brotherin '11 meet with one accord 
 In the higher, holier love-feast, whose leader is the Lord : 
 An' when this here life is over, with its sorrow an' its 
 
 sighs, 
 May the little church at Waycross jine the big church in 
 
 the skies ! 
 
 MY DEAD FRIEND. 
 
 FRANK L. STANTON. 
 
 Adown the vale of Life together 
 
 We walked in spring and winter weather, 
 
 When days were dim, when days were bright ; 
 My friend of whom God's will bereft me, 
 Whose kind, congenial spirit left me 
 
 And went forth in the Unknown Night. 
 
 I saw his step grow more invahd, 
 I saw his cheek grow pallid — pallid. 
 
 And wither like a dying rose ; 
 Until, at length, being all too weary 
 For Life's rude scenes and places dreary. 
 
 He bade farewell to friends and foes. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 279 
 
 This is his grave. The Spring with flowers 
 Bestrews it in the morning hours, 
 
 Her rarest roses o'er him bowed ; 
 And Summer pauses to deplore him, 
 And weeping Winter arches o'er him 
 
 Her solemn drapery of cloud. 
 
 He was not faultless. God, who gave him 
 
 Life, and Christ, who died to save him, 
 
 Sent Sorrow, wherewith he was tried ; 
 And if, as I who loved him name him. 
 There should be heard a voice to blame him. 
 
 May we not answer, " Christ hath died"? 
 
 Ah, verily ! . . . I fancy often 
 I see his kindly features soften, — 
 
 I mark his melting eyes grow dim, 
 While Hunger, with its pained appealing. 
 Its want and woe and grief revealing. 
 
 Stretched its imploring palms to him. 
 
 He cannot answer now. He never, 
 In all the dim, vast, deep Forever, 
 
 Shall speak with human words again. 
 He cannot hear the song-birds calKng ; 
 He cannot feel the spring dews falling. 
 
 Nor sigh when winter winds complain. 
 
 Deep is his sleep. He would not waken 
 Though earth were to her centre shaken 
 
 By the loud thunders of a God. 
 Though the strong sea, by tempest driven, 
 With wailing waves rock earth and heaven, 
 
 He would not answer from the sod. 
 
28o SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 So be it, friend ! A little while hence, 
 And in the dear, deep, dreamless silence 
 
 We too shall share thy couch of rest. 
 When we have trod Life's pathways dreary, 
 Kind Death will take the hands grown weary, 
 
 And gently fold them o' er the breast. 
 
 Sleep on, dear friend ! No marble column 
 Gleams in the lights and shadows solemn 
 
 Over the grasses on thy grave ; 
 But flowers bloom there — the roses love thee ; 
 And the tall oaks that tower above thee. 
 
 Their broad, green banners o'er thee wave. 
 
 Sleep, while the weary years are flying ; 
 While men are born, while men are dying ! 
 
 Sleep on thy curtained couch of sod ! 
 Thine be the rest which Christ hath given, 
 Thine be the Christian's hope of Heaven ; 
 
 Thine be the perfect peace of God ! 
 
 IN LOOKING ON THE HAPPY AUTUMN FIELDS. 
 
 JAMES LANE ALLEN. 
 
 Ah, happy fields, at rest from fruitfulness ! 
 No careless storm of the ungentle Spring 
 Uptore your venturing roots, nor pierced the sting 
 
 Of spiteful frost your early promises. 
 
 The skies were blue above you. With caress 
 Of gentlest beams the sun lured you to bring 
 Your blushing blossoms forth, and from the wing 
 
 Of night were shaken dews their thirst to bless. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 28 1 
 
 For shadows had ye but the bounteous clouds 
 That, passing, spanned you with the arch of hope ; 
 
 No canker-worms made of your leaves their shrouds. 
 Nor envious hand sowed tares on every slope. 
 
 And now the jocund harvesters have blest you, 
 
 Ye happy fields, that from your labors rest you. 
 
 Kind Heaven ! so order the uncertain days 
 Of my brief mortal season, so defend 
 From frost and drought and tempest, so befriend 
 
 With sun and dew, and bows of promise raise, 
 
 So temper to me all the cold world's ways 
 That not in vain my toiling strength I spend, 
 But come in ripeness to the perfect end. 
 
 And be at rest in life' s autumnal haze ! 
 
 Naught were it then upon the heart to take 
 
 The ice of death and in it lie entombed, 
 As when on you the snows of winter break, 
 
 Ye mourn not for the spring-time when ye bloomed. 
 Ah ! let me know the harvesters have blest me, 
 Ere I from all my labor come to rest me ! 
 
 AS SOME MYSTERIOUS WANDERER OF THE 
 SKIES. 
 
 HENRY JEROME STOCKARD. 
 
 As some mysterious wanderer of the skies, 
 Emerging from the deeps of outer dark. 
 Traces for once in human ken the arc 
 Of its stupendous curve, then swiftly flies 
 
 Out through some orbit veiled in space, which lies 
 Where no imagination may embark, — 
 Some onward-reaching track that God did mark 
 For all eternity beneath his eyes, — 
 24-* 
 
282 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 So comes the soul forth from creation' s vast : 
 
 So clothed with mystery moves through mortal sight 
 Then sinks away into the Great Unknown. 
 
 What systems it hath seen in all the past, 
 
 What worlds shall blaze upon its future flight, 
 Thou knowest, eternal God, and thou alone ! 
 
 TO A MOCKING-BIRD. 
 
 HENRY JEROME STOCKARD. 
 
 The name thou wearest does thee grievous wrong : 
 No mimic thou ; that voice is thine alone. 
 
 The poets sing but strains of Shakespeare's song ; 
 The birds, but notes of thine imperial own. 
 
 TO MY COMRADE TREE. 
 danske dandridge. 
 
 Remote in woods where thrushes chant ; 
 
 Or on some lonely mountain slope ; 
 Or in a copse, the cuckoo's haunt ; 
 
 With fingers pointing to the cope. 
 There stands a tree, there stands a tree 
 Must fall before they bury me. 
 
 O waiting heart, where'er thou art. 
 
 At last thy dust with mine shall blend ; 
 
 For though we spend our days apart. 
 We come together at the end ; 
 
 And thou with me and I with thee 
 
 Must lie in perfect unity. 
 
■ 
 
 ;-^i-'s;i!-\*:A^i?!'i3q*:^: ^j^^m/^:',,:. -. tfj> --^i 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 283 
 
 Within a cramped confine of space, 
 And owning naught of earth beside, 
 
 That heart must be my dweUing-place 
 For whom the world was not too wide. 
 
 A new-time Dryad, mine must be 
 
 The shape that shall inhabit thee. 
 
 Perchance in some lone wandering 
 
 On thy old roots I may have lain, 
 And heard, above, the wood-birds sing. 
 
 While God looked down upon no twain ; 
 And did I feel no thrill with thee 
 Of fellowship and sympathy ? 
 
 Is thy strong heart ne'er wearied out 
 With standing 'neath the over-freight 
 
 Of boughs that compass thee about 
 
 With mass of green, or white, a-weight ? 
 
 O patient tree ! O patient tree ! 
 
 Dost never long- for rest, like me ? 
 
 I know thou spreadest grateful shade 
 When fierce the noontide sun doth beat 
 
 And birds their nests in thee have made, 
 And cattle rested at thy feet : 
 
 Heaven grant I make this life of mine 
 
 As beautiful and brave as thine ! 
 
 And when thy circling cloak is doffed. 
 Thou standest on the storm-swept sod 
 
 And liftest thy long arms aloft 
 In mute appealing to thy God, 
 
 Appeal for me, appeal for me. 
 
 That I may stand as steadfastly. 
 
284 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Let me fulfil my destiny 
 
 And calmly wait for thee, O friend ! 
 For thou must fall, and I must die, 
 
 And come together at the end ; 
 To quiet slumbering addressed : 
 Shut off from storm, shut in for rest. 
 
 Thus, lying in God' s mighty hand 
 While His great purposes unfold. 
 
 We'll feel, as was from Chaos planned. 
 His breath inform our formless mould 
 
 New shape for thee, new life for me, 
 For both — a vast eternity. 
 
 TO A POET. 
 
 DANSKE DANDRIDGE. 
 
 If thou art a poet-son of God, 
 
 Fix upon the heights thy steadfast glance ; 
 Listen with quick ear to catch His word ; 
 
 Speak, as He shall give thee utterance. 
 
 Speak what earth unseals to thee, 
 And the sky reveals to thee ; 
 What the hoarse wind shrieks ; 
 And the dark tide speaks ; 
 What the storm-clouds thunder 
 
 In their meeting crash ; 
 What the lurid wonder 
 
 Of the hghtning flash. 
 
 Why the strong sun sets 
 
 And the planets rise ; 
 Why the rainbow spans 
 
 The wet summer skies ; 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 285 
 
 What the forests utter, 
 
 With incessant sound ; 
 What the caverns mutter, 
 
 RumbHng underground ; 
 What the crag reveals 
 
 Where man never trod ; 
 What the abyss conceals 
 
 Of the ways of God. 
 
 What the eagle calls 
 
 To the wild glen : 
 What the waterfalls 
 
 Answer again. 
 What the snake hisses ; 
 
 What the wolf yells ; 
 What, to the nesthng, 
 
 The owl's hooting tells. 
 
 What the hawk screameth 
 
 Over her nest : 
 What the heart dreameth 
 
 In mother's breast. 
 What the streams are gurgling 
 
 In a pleasant voice ; 
 Why the lambs are racing ; 
 
 Why the birds rejoice. 
 What thrushes sing to thee ; 
 What church-bells ring to thee : 
 
 Why the flowers fade ; 
 
 Why the earthworm dies, 
 While the chrysalids 
 
 Change to butterflies. 
 What the message of the rose 
 
 Or the violet : 
 
286 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Why each sweetest thing that grows 
 
 Is with tear-drops wet, 
 What the mind guesses, 
 
 Day after day. 
 Through dim recesses 
 
 Groping its way. 
 What the stars show 
 
 Each unto each ; 
 What the moon answers 
 
 In silver speech. 
 What of joy reaches thee ; 
 What thy pain teaches thee 
 
 That do thou teach. 
 
 Let thine inspiration, 
 
 Thy wisdom, be 
 What God's creation 
 
 Calleth to thee. 
 
 THE BACK-LOG. 
 
 INNES RANDOLPH. 
 
 It was a rule at Thornton Hall, 
 
 Unbroken from colonial days. 
 That holiday at Christmas-tide 
 
 Was measured by the Christmas blaze ; 
 For till the back-log burned in two. 
 
 The darkeys on the place were free 
 To dance and laugh and eat and drink. 
 
 And give themselves to jollity. 
 And mighty were the logs they brought, 
 
 Of weight that six stout men might bear, 
 All gnarled and knotted, slow to burn : 
 
 For Christmas comes but once a year. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 287 
 
 Old Ned had cut the log that year, 
 
 Old Ned, the fiddler, far renowned, 
 Who played at every country dance 
 
 That happened thirty miles around. 
 He cut the log ; for days his face 
 
 Showed gleams of merriment and craft, 
 He often went behind the house. 
 
 And leaned against the wall and laughed, 
 And called the other darkeys round 
 
 And whispered to them in the ear, 
 And loud the ringing laughter broke : 
 
 For Christmas comes but once a year. 
 
 At twilight upon Christmas Eve 
 
 The log was borne on shoulders strong 
 Of men who marked their cadenced steps 
 
 With music as they came along ; 
 And Ned, with air of high command. 
 
 Came marching at the head of all, 
 As he had done for ' ' thirty year, ' ' 
 
 On Christmas Eve at Thornton Hall. 
 He led the chorus as they marched, 
 
 The voices ringing loud and clear 
 From lusty throats and happy hearts : 
 
 For Christmas comes but once a year. 
 
 Though briskly blazed at Christmas Eve 
 
 That fire with flames and embers bright. 
 Until the antique fireplace lit 
 
 The panelled walls with ruddy light ; 
 Although the spacious chimney roared 
 
 Like woodlands in autumnal gales. 
 And lion andirons of bronze 
 
 Were red-hot in their manes and tails, 
 
288 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 That back-log incombustible, 
 Lay quite unkindled in the rear, 
 
 Or only slightly scorched and charred : 
 For Christmas comes but once a year. 
 
 Wide open swung the great hall door 
 
 Before the east was gray with dawn. 
 And sleighs with argosies of girls 
 
 Came jingling up across the lawn, 
 Came youths astride of prancing steeds, 
 
 Came cousins to the tenth remove. 
 With cousins greeting by the sweet 
 
 Lip-services that cousins love. 
 The silver tankard went around 
 
 To every lip with brave good cheer. 
 According to the ancient rites : 
 
 For Christmas comes but once a year. 
 
 They feasted high at Thornton Hall, 
 
 The Christmas revel lasted long : 
 They danced the old Virginia reels, 
 
 And chanted many a jovial song. 
 The old folk prosed, the young made love ; 
 
 They played the romps of olden days. 
 They told strange tales of ghost and witch. 
 
 While sitting round the chimney' s blaze. 
 But though the pile of lightwood knots 
 
 Defied the frosty atmosphere. 
 The back-log still held bravely out : 
 
 For Christmas comes but once a year. 
 
 And at the quarter merry rang 
 
 The fiddle's scrape, the banjo's twang ; 
 
 How rhythmic beat the happy feet ! 
 How rollicksome the songs they sang ! 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 No work at all for hands to do, 
 
 But work abundant for the jaws, 
 And good things plenty smoking hot. 
 
 Made laughter come in great yaw-haws ! 
 They frolicked early, frolicked late, 
 
 And freely flowed the grog, I fear, 
 According to the settled rule : 
 
 For Christmas comes but once a year. 
 
 So passed the merry Christmas week, 
 
 And New Year's morning came and passed 
 The revel ceased, the guests went home, 
 
 The back-log burned in two at last. 
 And then old master sent for Ned, 
 
 Still mellow with protracted grog. 
 And asked him where, in Satan's name, 
 
 He picked him out that fire-proof log : 
 And Ned, with all the dignity 
 
 That drink confers, contrived to speak : 
 ' ' I tuk and cut a black-gum log, 
 
 And soaked it nine days in de creek. 
 I fear it was a wicked thing, 
 
 I'm feared to meet de oberseer ; 
 But den you mus' remember, sah, 
 
 Dat Christmas comes but once a year." 
 
 A SUPPOSITION. 
 
 NETTIE HOUSTON BRINGHURST. 
 
 If the announcing angel did not come 
 With tidings strange to Jewish Mary's home ; 
 Nor e'er foretold the glorious thing, 
 
 For which the earth was glad, of which the angels sing 
 N ^ 25 
 
290 SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 If journeying wise men did not see the star 
 
 Pointing the Promised in the East afar ; 
 
 If Bethlehem's babe were not the Holy One, 
 
 And God the Father called not Christ His Son ; 
 
 If for our sakes He chose not mortal birth, 
 
 Nor dwelt a wanderer on the face of earth ; 
 
 Nor deemed His sacred blood a fitting gift 
 
 Sin's heavy burden from our souls to lift ; 
 
 If we reject Him, as the thinker saith. 
 
 What have we in thy place, oh, precious Faith ? 
 
 A WEB OF TATTING. 
 
 JEANNETTE CARUTHERS. 
 
 This is the window ; see, the Southern sun 
 
 (Dashed with quaint shadow-leaves, that move and play) 
 Falls in a fretted square 
 Over this old oak-chair. 
 Just as a thousand times it must have done 
 When she sat silent here the livelong day. 
 
 The livelong day, weaving this lacy web 
 
 With deft white hands, that paused and wearied not, 
 Except to let her cite 
 A mock -bird' s circling flight ; 
 Or far below, the noon-wave' s quiet ebb. 
 
 And blend with it some deep and dreamy thought. 
 
 A gracious woman was she, — ^beauty born, — 
 Too always conscious of it to seem aware ; 
 She wore her beauty still, 
 Seeming against her will, 
 Though youth had faded, — youth's fine fervor gone, — 
 With something of a tired, reluctant air. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 One gazing on her tranquil, dreamy face 
 
 Had never guessed the passionate heart below ; 
 Had never guessed the strife, 
 The anguish of her life. 
 That passed before that fine self-conquering grace 
 Had calmed her heart, and clothed her beauty so. 
 
 She dreamed one passionate dream, and it sufficed ; 
 The day the cold clods fell upon his heart, 
 Joy, hope, ambition died, — 
 Their faithful love denied ; 
 Henceforth no luring voice of earth enticed ; 
 She lived her stainless widow-life apart. 
 
 Apart with those, his own, whose hves were marred 
 By the same bitter loss that wrecked her own ; 
 To these in loyal wise 
 She lifted patient eyes, 
 And served through fortune fair and evil-starred. 
 Yielding her heart to no faint, fretful moan. 
 
 But conquering through patience her despair. 
 
 She learned to wait and work, and when her hands 
 Unnerved, and heart-confused. 
 All other work refused. 
 She made this woven phantasy her care. 
 
 And wrought in bitterest days these flowery bands. 
 
 What life-despair and pain is woven here. 
 Unseen of all who watched the fair design ! 
 This circle means a sigh ; 
 This rose a deep heart-cry ; 
 These leaves were wet with many and many a tear ; 
 The agony of years is in this vine ! 
 
 291 
 
292 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 But when at last the tear of grief could ebb, 
 And gentle thoughts, like flowers after storm, 
 Began to lift the head 
 And some faint fragrance shed, 
 She did not cast aside this simple web ; 
 
 But wrought, and seemed to quicken thought therefrom. 
 
 Strange shadows from the world without swept by 
 
 Those absent eyes, that watched the glancing thread ; 
 Intrepid thought, that far 
 Followed the latest star. 
 Science, which wed with truth can never die ; 
 Philosophies half false, and thus half dead. 
 
 Dim dreams and fancies from the Muses' world, 
 Sweetly attuned to music too, would drift 
 Above her quiet soul 
 Like morning mists, that roll 
 O'er tranquil lakes, enwoven with fine gold. 
 Until the wakening breeze shall bid them lift. 
 
 She had the ear to hear, the eye to see ; 
 
 The heart that, wise in silence, understands ; 
 She might have won some crown 
 Of this world's fair renown, 
 Could she have stooped to blend familiarly 
 
 With crowds, and tune her song to their demands. 
 
 The world, free with its gold, will never lack 
 Its praises, sung in poet cadence fine ; 
 Her part, her one delight, 
 Always to walk in white. 
 And all along life's dark and dusty track 
 Fearless to follow on the light divine. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Here, Lelia, take the web ; some semblance fair 
 Of shadowy leaves has passed into its face ; 
 A wing of passing bird, 
 A flower-bell, wind-stirred, 
 And something of the whiteness fine and clear 
 Of a pure life's most rare and perfect grace. 
 
 Yes, Lelia, — take it, child, — and when the art 
 Of love shall drape you faultless, and you go 
 To that high altar bright 
 Upon your bridal night. 
 Wear this, and wear it nearer to your heart 
 Than finest laces of your bridal snow. 
 
 293 
 
 THE SIREN. 
 Thomas B. Ford. 
 
 In dreams I see a siren, who is sitting by a sea. 
 
 Ever singing of the future, and a happy time to be ; 
 
 In the splendors of the starlight, underneath a crescent 
 
 moon. 
 She chants of bounteous harvests and a golden-freighted 
 
 June. 
 
 And she has sung these songs to me through all the weary 
 
 years ; 
 And I have watched and waited long in doubts, and hopes, 
 
 and tears, 
 A-watching and a-waiting for the happy times to be. 
 That this cruel, cruel siren sings so constantly to me. 
 
 But still the night grows longer, and the stars begin to wane 
 As o'er my rough and rugged way still falls that mocking 
 
 strain ; 
 And still I struggle onward, to that silent, unknown sea, 
 While this deceitful siren sings of things that are to be. 
 25* 
 
294 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 HE WHO HATH LOVED. 
 
 WALTER MALONE. 
 
 He who hath loved hath borne a vassal's chain, 
 
 And worn the royal purple of a king ; 
 
 Hath shrunk beneath the icy winter's sting, 
 Then revelled in the golden summer's reign ; 
 He hath within the dust and ashes lain, 
 
 Then soared o'er mountains on an eagle's wing ; 
 
 A hut hath slept in, worn with wandering, 
 And hath been lord of castle towers in Spain. 
 
 He who hath loved hath starved in beggar's cell, 
 Then in Aladdin's jewelled chariot driven ; 
 
 He hath with passion roamed a demon fell. 
 And had an angel's raiment to him given ; 
 
 His restless soul hath burned with flames of hell, 
 
 And winged through ever-blooming fields of heaven. 
 
 LITTLE PILGRIMS. 
 
 ELVIRA SYDNOR MILLER. 
 
 Beyond these loveless regions where we wander. 
 
 Beyond the rose and snow, 
 To some celestial country over yonder 
 
 Our little pilgrims go. 
 
 Some silent and some singing, some called early 
 
 Who do not speak, but smile, 
 Lost darlings with bright eyes and locks so curly, 
 
 Heirs of love's after-while. 
 
 We read full oft in some quaint old-time story, 
 Traced by a monkish hand. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 295 
 
 How once the children, dreaming dreams of glory, 
 Sought for the holy land. 
 
 Bright-eyed and brave they went from town to city, 
 
 Urged by the heavenly call, 
 While worldly souls looked on in love and pity, 
 
 But stayed them not withal. 
 
 And some who loved them wept, and some were quiet, 
 
 And some smiled as they passed ; 
 They knew, beyond the heart-break and the riot, 
 
 They'd find God's land at last. 
 
 And so they passed beyond all earthly noises, 
 
 Beyond all human sight, 
 Yet still the echo of their angel voices 
 
 Was blown back through the night. 
 * -jt * ^ -x- * 
 
 And even now as in the old-time story, 
 
 Led by some angel hand. 
 Our little pilgrims, dreaming dreams of glory. 
 
 Seek for the holy land. 
 
 They rise and leave us at the flush of dawning. 
 
 At sunset or at night, 
 Nor smiles, nor tears, nor words of earthly warning. 
 
 May stay them in their flight. 
 
 They leave no footsteps on the April grasses. 
 
 Nor on the highway wide, 
 But wheresoe'er the glad procession passes. 
 
 The earth seems sanctified. 
 
 We may not know what cares or ills befall them, 
 
 So swift our joy is slain ; 
 But all things fair and pure and good, recall them 
 
 And bid them live again. 
 
296 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 And so beyond these regions where we wander, 
 
 Beyond the rose and snow, 
 To some celestial country over yonder 
 
 Our little pilgrims go. 
 
 BEREFT. 
 
 ANNAH ROBERTSON WATSON. 
 
 I KNEW just how much I loved him ! there comes no reveal- 
 ing to me 
 
 Of the depths of passionate feeling ; I knew what the world 
 would be 
 
 Without him. 
 
 I had visions of its desolation, I had measured its empti- 
 ness drear, 
 
 And had looked with frighted eyes often to this possible 
 woe, now here. 
 
 Without him. 
 
 You need not talk about sorrow, nor tell me the value of 
 
 tears ; 
 Be quiet, the height of my effort will be only to live 
 
 through the years 
 
 Without him. 
 
 Ambition ! the children ! be quiet. How dare you name 
 
 them to me ? 
 In this vast solitude I inhabit only shadows they seem to be 
 Without him. 
 •5f * -x- * -x- ^ 
 
 O God ! forgive these first moments' despairing and hope- 
 less regret ; 
 
 Oh, help me to stifle this moaning, 'tis all that I feel as 
 yet. 
 
 Without him. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 297 
 
 Oh, help me be silent, submissive ; oh, lay Thy hand on 
 
 my heart, 
 To still its rebellious beatings and teach it to do its part 
 Without him. 
 
 TWO SELVES. 
 
 MAUDE ANDREWS. 
 
 Unto myself I have grown strangely great 
 
 And wise and good. 
 Crowned with rare beauty, lo ! I sit in state. 
 
 Of womanhood, 
 The lofty queen ; so wondrous fair am I 
 
 That angels come. 
 To peep out from their windows in the sky 
 
 And then grow dumb 
 With envy of my perfect loveliness ; 
 
 While all the world 
 Lives but to do me homage and to bless 
 
 My days. Unfurled 
 Life' s greatest honors wave, my eyes to greet ; 
 
 How strange it seems. 
 All these high praises — ah ! so strange and sweet, 
 
 As if in dreams 
 I walked ; yet unto one, these dreams I know 
 
 All seem as true 
 As truth itself, because you love me so. 
 
 Dear heart, to you 
 I am all that I am not and would be. 
 
 Thy love hath made 
 Me stand before my true self tremblingly 
 
 Shy and afraid. 
 I look up to my new self with this trust : 
 
 That I may climb 
 
298 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 On thy love' s ladder from my human dust, 
 
 And win in time 
 The stars you now see in my lowly brow. 
 
 Thy love alone 
 Hath power to lift me to that self which now 
 
 You deem my own. 
 
 SIDNEY LANIER. 
 
 WAITMAN BARBE. 
 
 O SPIRIT to a kingly holding born ! 
 
 As beautiful as any southern morn 
 That wakes to woo the willing hills, 
 Thy life was hedged about by ills 
 
 As pitiless as any northern night ; 
 
 Yet thou didst make it as thy ' ' sunrise' ' bright. 
 
 The seas were not too deep for thee ; thine eye 
 Was comrade with the farthest star on high. 
 
 The marsh burst into bloom for thee, — 
 
 And still abloom shall ever be ! 
 Its sluggish tide shall henceforth bear alway 
 A charm it did not hold until thy day. 
 
 And Life walks out upon the slipping sands 
 With more of flowers in her trembling hands 
 
 Since thou didst suffer and didst sing ! 
 
 And so to thy dear grave I bring 
 One little rose, in poor exchange for all 
 The flowers that from thy rich hand did fall. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 299 
 
 UNGENEROUS. 
 
 LEONORA BECK. 
 
 Unto my only sweetheart 
 
 I sent a valentine : 
 'Twas just a few warm heart-words 
 
 Margined with passion vine. 
 I sketched the trailing leaf fringe, 
 
 The verses, too, were mine. 
 
 And when the first March violet, 
 
 Amid a storm uptossed, 
 Smiled back in shy defiance 
 
 Of cold-scythed, sharp King Frost, 
 Upgathering I bore it 
 
 To her whom I loved most. 
 
 When April showered primroses. 
 
 And marguerites, the May, 
 The gold and pearly treasures 
 
 That crowned each sun-bright day 
 Prodigal, I hasted 
 
 Within her hands to lay. 
 
 For valentine and violet, 
 
 Primrose and marguerite, 
 For roses pink and amber, 
 
 June threw me for my sweet, 
 For my whole life' s one soul-love, 
 
 What leaves she at my feet ? 
 
 Oh, heart's best, was it generous 
 
 For all the gifts I gave 
 To give me this ? — Still whitely 
 
 June's first tall lilies wave. 
 While you forget, on star heights, 
 
 That I have but your grave. 
 
300 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 THE LAST SLUMBER. 
 
 MYRTA LOCKETT AVARY. 
 
 He sleeps. 
 
 Who sleeps? 
 
 You do not know, 
 
 And I must tell you soft and low, 
 
 My little baby sleepeth so. 
 
 He sleeps. 
 
 My baby sleeps so late ! 
 
 The little birds awake and sing, 
 
 And flit about on happy wing. 
 
 He waketh not for anything. 
 
 He sleeps so late, 
 
 My baby sleeps. 
 
 The noon upon the morn doth wait ; 
 The sun shines full upon the gate ; 
 The bees and birds are in full tune, 
 And summer life is at its noon — 
 My heart doth break ! 
 My baby never will awake ! 
 
 He sleeps. 
 
 The tender eve draws near ; 
 
 The lights of home are shining clear. 
 
 But in the churchyard, dark and drear, 
 
 My little baby sleeps. 
 
 THE EVE OF ALL SAINTS. 
 
 I. 
 
 This is the tale they tell. 
 
 Of an Hallowe'en ; 
 This is the thing that befell 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 30 1 
 
 Me and the village belle, 
 Beautiful Aimee Dean. 
 
 II. 
 
 Did I love her ? — God and she, 
 
 They know and I ! 
 And love was the life of me — 
 Whatever else may be, 
 
 Would God that I could die ! 
 
 III. 
 
 That All-Saints' eve was dim ; 
 
 The frost lay white 
 Under strange stars and a slim 
 Moon in the graveyard grim, 
 
 An autumn ghost of light. 
 
 IV. 
 
 They told her : "Go alone, 
 
 With never a word, 
 To the burial plot's unknown 
 Grave with the grayest stone, 
 
 When the clock on twelve is heard ; 
 
 V. 
 "Three times around it pass, - 
 
 With never a sound ; 
 Each time a wisp of grass 
 And myrtle pluck, and pass 
 
 Out of the ghostly ground. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " And the bridegroom that's to be 
 
 At smiling wait, 
 With a face like mist to see. 
 With graceful gallantry 
 
 Will bow you to the gate. ' ' 
 26 
 
302 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 VII. 
 
 She laughed at this, and so 
 
 Bespoke us how 
 To the burial place she'd go : 
 And I was glad to know, 
 
 For I'd be there to bow. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 An acre from the farm 
 The homestead graves 
 
 Lay walled from sun and storm ; 
 
 Old cedars of priestly form 
 Around like sentinel slaves. 
 
 IX. 
 
 I loved, but never could say 
 
 Such words to her, 
 And waited from day to day, 
 Nursing the hopes that lay 
 
 Under the doubts that were. 
 
 X. 
 
 She passed 'neath the iron arch 
 
 Of the legended ground, 
 And the moon like a twisted torch 
 Burned over one lonesome larch ; 
 She passed with never a sound. 
 
 XL 
 
 Three times had the circle traced, 
 
 Three times had bent 
 To the grave that the myrtle graced 
 Three times, then softly faced 
 Homeward, and slowly went. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 303 
 
 XII. 
 
 Had the moonlight changed me so ? 
 
 Or fear undone 
 Her stepping strange and slow ? 
 Did she see and did not know ? 
 
 Or loved she another one ? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Who knows ? — She turned to flee 
 
 With a face so white 
 That it haunts and will haunt me ; 
 The wind blew gustily, 
 
 The graveyard gate clanged tight. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Did she think it me, or what, 
 
 Clutching her dress ? 
 Her face so pinched that not 
 A star in a stormy spot 
 
 Shows half as much distress. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Did I speak ? did she answer aught ? 
 
 O God ! had I said, 
 " Aimee, 'tis I !" but naught! 
 And the mist and the moon distraught 
 
 Stared with me on her — dead. . . . 
 
 XVI. 
 
 This is the tale they tell 
 
 Of the Hallowe'en ; 
 This is the thing that befell 
 Me and the village belle. 
 
 Beautiful Aimee Dean. 
 
304 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 THE QUATRAIN. 
 
 ROBERT LOVEMAN. 
 
 Only four scanty lines are there, 
 Yet might a master mind rehearse 
 
 All heaven's hope and hell's despair 
 Within one little trembling verse. 
 
 DRIFTING. 
 
 ALBA MALONE. 
 
 I'm drifting on the waters, the waters deep and wide, 
 Drifting without a pilot, without a hand to guide. 
 Drifting out to seaward, drifting with the tide. 
 
 I used to fret and struggle to reach a longed-for shore ; 
 I set my boat against the tide, against the breaker's roar ; 
 I hoisted sail against the wind, and stoutly plied the oar. 
 
 But soon I learned a bitter truth : It is of no avail 
 Against the wind and tide of fate to set a mortal sail ; 
 The ocean's wind, the ocean's tide, will in the end prevail. 
 
 So my sail is furled, my oar is still, I do not lift a hand ; 
 I only sit with folded arms and watch the foam-washed 
 
 sand. 
 While I drift away to seaward from the fast-receding land. 
 
 That land is fading, fading — the last faint streak is gone ; 
 With folded arms I'm drifting, swiftly drifting on ; 
 Far out to sea I'll surely be before the break of dawn. 
 
 The night is closing 'round me, and danger may be nigh ; 
 The wind is sobbing, moaning, the waves are breaking 
 
 high; 
 The sullen thunder mutters from out the cloud-girt sky. 
 
SOIVGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 305 
 
 But still I'm drifting onward beyond the range of sight, 
 God's will my only compass, sail, or beacon light, 
 Drifting, ever drifting into the unknown night. 
 
 I do not know where I may go, I may not reach the shore ; 
 The breakers high that lash the sky and wildly, madly 
 
 roar 
 May sink me deep where I shall sleep with myriads gone 
 
 before ; 
 
 But still with folded arms I sit and threatening dangers 
 
 hear ; 
 The ocean's wave, the ocean's tide, I do not, cannot fear ; 
 Too well I know, for weal or woe, God's providence is 
 
 here. 
 
 I'm drifting on the waters, the waters deep and wide. 
 Drifting on, with folded arms, with no mortal hand to 
 
 guide, 
 Drifting where, I know not, but I'm drifting with God's 
 
 tide. 
 
 A DECEMBER ROSE. 
 
 LIZETTE WORDWORTH REESE. 
 
 A ROSE is a rose all times of the year. 
 I have one out in my garden there. 
 In the deep grass out by the gray old stair,- 
 
 A breath of June in December drear. 
 
 Ah, but its red is a little sere. 
 
 And nipped by the frost in last night's air I 
 A rose is a rose all times of the year. 
 
 I have one out in my garden there. 
 26* 
 
3o6 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 So, when Love comes, he is counted dear, 
 With his reed at his hps, in June-tide fair, 
 A piping sweet, or with wind-blown hair, 
 
 And tears in his eyes in December drear. 
 
 A rose is a rose all times of the year. 
 
 DOUBT. 
 
 LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE. 
 
 Creeds grow so thick along the way, 
 Their boughs hide God : I cannot pray. 
 
 HEROISM. 
 
 LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE. 
 
 Whether we climb, whether we plod, 
 Space for one task the scant years lend, 
 
 To choose some path that leads to God, 
 And keep it to the end. 
 
 OVER THE SEA LIES SPAIN. 
 
 CHARLES WASHINGTON COLEMAN. 
 
 Perhaps they may count me a beggar here, 
 With never a roof for the wind and the rain 
 
 But there is the sea and the wave-lashed pier, 
 And over the sea lies Spain. 
 
 And there am I held by a title high, 
 
 As befitteth the lord of a broad demesne ; 
 
 For there is my kingdom and here am I, 
 With only the sea between. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 307 
 
 And what if the sea be deep, be deep, 
 
 And what if the sea be wide ? 
 Some day I shall float in my own fair boat 
 
 And sail to the other side. 
 
 A certain man in the city I meet. 
 
 As he steps to his coach at the curbstone there, 
 From a solemn house in a stately street ; 
 
 You would know him rich by his air. 
 
 He gives me a finger or two to hold, 
 
 Or only a passing nod may deign ; 
 He does not know of my title and gold, 
 
 My castle and lands in Spain. 
 
 And what care I for his bonds and stocks ? 
 
 No solemn house in the city for me ! 
 His are the ships that lie at the docks ; 
 
 But I have a ship at sea. 
 
 And what if the land be far, be far. 
 
 And what if the sea be wide ? 
 Some day I shall sail with a favoring gale 
 
 To a port on the other side. 
 
 And now while I he on the sea-beach here. 
 With the fisherman yonder mending his seine, 
 
 I know that only the sea sweeps clear 
 'Twixt me and my castle in Spain. 
 
 I can see the sun on its airy towers, 
 
 And a white hand beckon from over-sea ; 
 
 I can smell the breath of the rosy bowers. 
 Where somebody waits for me. 
 
3o8 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 So contented I walk in this world of men, 
 To which by an alien name I am known ; 
 
 And how it will gape in wonder when 
 Don Carlos comes to his own ! 
 
 Be never the land so far, so far. 
 
 Be never so deep the main, 
 There's a ship on the sea that belongs to me. 
 
 And over the sea lies Spain. 
 
 IMPENNATE. 
 
 LULAH RAGSDALE. 
 
 Bird in the lucent height, 
 Cleaving the silver light 
 With mounting wing. 
 Why didst thou come my way ? 
 Thou hast disturbed my day ; 
 I, too, would sing. 
 
 Thou, with one passing strain, 
 
 Thrilled with the pulse of pain, 
 Yet sweet and strong, — 
 Thou hast shamed all my art : 
 
 Bird, thou hast hurt my heart, 
 That aches with song. 
 
 Thou, Bird, afar canst fly, 
 Poising in sapphire sky. 
 Sick of Earth's sin : 
 Folding thy wings so near 
 
 Thou canst the heaven-harps hear. 
 Losing Earth's din. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 309 
 
 I, plodding day by day, 
 
 Sing — with my feet in clay — 
 Impotently. 
 Music of upper spheres 
 
 By drip of human tears 
 Is drowned for me. 
 
 Bird, lost in far, fair shine, 
 
 If once thy wings were mine, 
 I'd sing thy strain. 
 But give those wings to me 
 
 Thy songs would henceforth be 
 Earthly and vain. 
 
 Birdling, one raptured day 
 
 I shall be freed from clay. 
 Winged as thou. 
 Cleaving the crystal sky, 
 As angels sing shall I, 
 Song's I dreajn now. 
 
 A MAGNOLIA BLOSSOM. 
 
 ANNIE WARREN MARSHALL. 
 
 White as the whitest foam on the sea 
 
 That tosses its waves under fervent skies, 
 Or a feather dropped from an angel's wing 
 
 As it leant o'er the walls of Paradise. 
 Is this rare, faint fragrance the Magi's gift 
 
 From Arabia the Happy, my pure, pale flower ! 
 Did you lift, in the gardens of Hesperus, 
 
 Your radiant face to the sun and shower ,? 
 
3IO SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 white-browed Queen, with your crown of pearl, 
 The veil of the present falls in twain 
 
 At the spell of your touch, and in tender thought 
 I stand in your own bright land again. 
 
 1 find strange shapes in the moss-hung woods, — 
 
 An army of phantoms, gray and old ; 
 
 The wayward jessamine climbs and clings 
 
 And falls in a Danae shower of gold. 
 
 The scent of the pine-groves, where the wind 
 
 Sweeps all the chords in a minor key. 
 As though 'twere a Dryad's heart in pain 
 
 That murmured its sorrow unceasingly. 
 And I see, half waking and half in a dream, 
 
 In a riotous tangle of bud and bloom, 
 A high-walled garden o'errun with fern. 
 
 Where the pomegranate glows through the spicy gloom. 
 
 Tall lilies and violets brimmed with dew, 
 
 Cast over with shadows deep and cool ; 
 Rose leaves dappled with pink and pearl, 
 
 Afloat on the breast of a shallow pool. 
 And the beautiful dream of the Southern night ! 
 
 Bright wonder of sudden and shining stars ! 
 A shimmer of gold through the luminous dusk. 
 
 While the moon sails under her cloudy bars. 
 
 There' s a line of light where the sky bends down 
 
 To touch the violet rim of the sea ; 
 And the spice-winds blow at their own sweet will, 
 
 From the far, fair isles where their home may be. 
 Afar in a thicket of moss and fern 
 
 A Bacchanal mocking-bird's lilting note 
 Breaks off in the midst of a rapturous song, 
 
 And dies with a thrill in his quivering throat. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Musk odors rise to the vast, deep sky, 
 
 And a vague expectancy fills the air ; 
 Faint, tremulous undertones, half afraid 
 
 To break into music, everywhere. 
 And into the purple and throbbing depths, 
 
 With a passionate pulse in the heart and brain, 
 I gaze through a strange, quick rush of tears. 
 
 With a wistful pleasure akin to pain. 
 
 Bride of the south wind ! I would stain 
 
 That snow with the blush of a new-found bhss. 
 Were I the lover to find your soul 
 
 And fathom its deeps with a bridal kiss. 
 At one bend of your stately and royal head, 
 
 And a glance of your flower-face unto mine, 
 I would follow you over and out of the world, 
 
 To that dim, wide realm that is half divine. 
 
 311 
 
 OVER AN OLD LETTER. 
 
 JAMES LINDSAY GORDON. 
 
 I LIFT it from the place where it was hidden 
 
 Out of the light away these many years ; 
 I read her letter o'er, and tears unbidden 
 
 Spring into eyes that long have known no tears. 
 Old dreams come to me, half forgotten fancies, — 
 
 Delicious days that long since found an end, — ■ 
 As reading o'er the best of life's romances, 
 
 I find ' ' Your little sweetheart' ' at the end. 
 
 Outside the window there, a bird is singing 
 His first sweet song unto the morning sky ; 
 
 Inside, deep in a man's heart, thoughts are springing 
 That have lain sleeping since his youth went by. 
 
312 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 The bird's wild song is from his throat outpealing, 
 As if the strain his very throat would rend ; 
 
 No song may tell the memories o'er me stealing 
 At reading those three words just at the end, — 
 
 " Your little sweetheart," all the sad, sweet story 
 
 With fond remembrance to my spirit cries ; 
 Again I see hair of an amber glory 
 
 Tangled across the gleam of sunny eyes. 
 Thro' Time's dim halls a song rings soft and tender. 
 
 In whose sweet tones our joyous voices blend ; 
 Ah, yes ! they bring back all love's early splendor, 
 
 Those words, "Your little sweetheart," at the end. 
 
 Thro' the open door I turn my face to seaward. 
 
 Where rippling breezes o' er the blue waves blow ; 
 The shining bird is flying far to leeward, — 
 
 Just as she left me, in the long ago ; 
 Left me, a friend to come back to me never — 
 
 The chain is broken that no power can mend — 
 The hand will rest in mine no more forever 
 
 That wrote "Your little sweetheart" at the end. 
 
 I lay aside the time-stained, yellow letter. 
 
 My little sweetheart, my last link to thee ; 
 Whether it all were for the worse or better, * 
 
 May God be with you, wheresoe'er you be. 
 And howsoever much my feet may falter. 
 
 May your path lead where radiant roses bend, 
 For you will be what only death can alter, ^ 
 
 My little sweetheart to the very end. 
 
SOJVGS OF THE SOUTH. 313 
 
 I MISS THEE. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 I MISS thee, I miss thee, my darling. 
 
 The Hght in the sky 
 Is never so golden, my darling, 
 
 As when thou art nigh. 
 The tender wild flowers are springing 
 
 All over the earth ; 
 And birds in the woodland are singing 
 
 With musical mirth. 
 But over my soul is brooding 
 
 A sorrow to-day. 
 The thought is forever intruding 
 
 That thou art away. 
 
 I miss thee, I miss thee, my darling, 
 
 The bright spring is here, 
 But not half so welcome, my darling. 
 
 As when thou wert near. 
 With blushes, as rosy as morning. 
 
 The peach blossoms glow ; 
 The wild plum her brow is adorning 
 
 With buds white as snow. 
 The bees o'er the sweet-scented flowers 
 
 Delightedly stray ; 
 But dreary to me are the hours, 
 
 For thou art away. 
 
 I miss thee, I miss thee, beloved, 
 
 The gentle sunshine 
 Is filling all spirits, beloved, 
 
 With gladness, save mine. 
 The zephyr's light pinions are shaking 
 
 The dew from the grass ; 
 27 
 
3^4 
 
 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 And purple-eyed violets waking 
 
 Wherever they pass. 
 The turtle-dove coos to her lover 
 
 And chides his delay, 
 My heart sayeth, over and over, 
 
 Thou, too, art away. 
 
 I miss thee, I miss thee, my dear one ; 
 
 The odorous breeze 
 Is whispering tenderly, dear one, 
 
 His love to the trees. 
 The brooklet, while madly and fleetly 
 
 He rusheth along. 
 Is chanting, how wildly and sweetly, 
 
 A rapturous song. 
 The great heart of nature beats gladly 
 
 This beautiful day. 
 While mine throbbeth strangely and sadly, 
 
 For thou art away. 
 
 LEAVE ME NOT YET, MY MOTHER! 
 
 MRS. M. E. DREW. 
 
 Leave me not yet, my mother ! 
 
 Bear with my mood to-night ! 
 For mem'ries pure and sad and sweet 
 
 Are shedding hallowed light 
 Over the spectral, shadowy past 
 
 Of buried hopes and fears : 
 Of joys and sorrows shared by thee, 
 
 With gentlest smiles and tears. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Leave me not yet, my mother ! 
 
 Thine was the sweetest face, 
 The sweetest smile in all the world 
 
 That infant eyes could trace. 
 As baby arms cling 'round my neck. 
 
 And soft lips turn to mine, 
 I feel the strength of mother-love. 
 
 And know the depth of thine. 
 
 Leave me not yet, my mother ! 
 
 My later girlhood's hours, 
 Thou wouldst have made, if mortal might, 
 
 A path of woodland flowers. 
 And I, O Heaven ! cannot make 
 
 One dying pang the less ; 
 Or from thy heart an atom lift 
 
 Of anguish or distress ! 
 
 Leave me not yet, my mother ! 
 
 My dearest, truest guide. 
 Ah, me, thy feet are nearing fast 
 
 The shining river-side. 
 O God, that by some sacrifice 
 
 I might be lent the power 
 To give her, in this cruel night. 
 
 One sweet and restful hour ! 
 
 Leave me not yet, my mother ! 
 
 Alas, I plead in vain ; 
 Thy loving heart, thy gentle voice, 
 
 Will ne'er respond again. 
 Thy feet have crossed the sombre waves, 
 
 Have touched the golden shore ; 
 And thou hast found the peace, the bliss, 
 
 That lasteth evermore. 
 
 315 
 
3i6 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 A SIMPLE SONG. 
 
 JAMES CHESTER ROCKWELL. 
 
 " If I could stand," the poet said, 
 "Upon yon mountain's distant crest 
 
 And catch the songs from overhead, 
 My soul no more would sigh to rest." 
 
 He stood upon the lonely height, 
 
 And heard the singing of the spheres ; 
 
 He caught the music in its flight 
 And sent it ringing down the years. 
 
 But no one listened to the strain 
 That echoed from the far away : 
 
 " Alas," he cried, "my toil is vain ! 
 Too grand these songs for such as they." 
 
 And then he softly touched his lyre 
 And sang a song so wild and sweet, 
 
 Of bleeding hope and dead desire. 
 And, lo ! the world was at his feet. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 
 
 [Comparatively few of the following authors are mentioned in 
 biographical dictionaries. Credit for names and dates must be 
 given to Miss Manly's " Southern Literature,'' Miss Rutherford's 
 " American Authors," and many private correspondents. Addi- 
 tions and corrections are sohcited from any persons who have accu- 
 rate information. — EDITOR.] 
 
 Allen, James Lane, born near Lexington, Kentucky, 
 1 8 5-, was a student and afterwards a teacher in Transyl- 
 vania University. He has won a national reputation by 
 his short stories of Kentucky life. 
 
 Allston, Washington, South Carolina, 1 799-1 843, 
 was educated at the North on account of his health, and 
 spent much time abroad. He was the greatest American 
 painter of his age, and sometimes denominated "The 
 American Titian." Published a volume of poems; a 
 satire, "Two Painters ;" and a story, " Monaldi." 
 
 Andrews, Miss Eliza Frances, Washington, Georgia, 
 1847, has written poetry, novels, and newspaper letters, 
 under the name of Elzey Hay. Is now teacher in Wes- 
 leyan Female College, Macon, Georgia, first chartered 
 female college of the world. 
 
 Andrews, Maude. See Ohl. 
 
 Avary, Mrs. Myrta Lockett, Virginia, 186-, has 
 written largely for periodicals. North and South. Resides 
 in Atlanta, Georgia. 
 
 27* 111 
 
3l8 APPENDIX. 
 
 Bacon, Miss Julia, Macon, Georgia, 185-, is a lineal 
 descendant of the "Jamestown Rebel," Nathaniel Bacon. 
 Has written stories and poems for various periodicals. 
 Resides in Beaumont, Texas. 
 
 Barbe, Waitman, Morgantown, West Virginia, 1864, 
 has published a book of verses, "Ashes and Incense" 
 (J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia), which has met 
 with great favor from the critics and the public. 
 
 Beck, Miss Leonora, Georgia, 186-, has written short 
 stories and poems, collected under the title, " Star-Heights.' ' 
 
 Berryhill, S. Newton, Columbus, Mississippi, 1830- 
 1888, was all his life a cripple from paralysis. He wrote 
 much on political topics of the day, and published a book 
 of verses, "Backwoods Poems." 
 
 Bleckley, Logan E., Georgia, 1827, is an eminent 
 lawyer, and ex-Judge of Supreme Court of Georgia, 
 
 Boner, John H., North Carohna, 1845, poet, critic, 
 editor, now resides in New York City. 
 
 Brennan, Joseph, born in Ireland, 1829, was compelled 
 to leave that country on account of connection with revo- 
 lutionary movements in 1848. He found an exile's home 
 in New Orleans, where he engaged in newspaper work 
 until his death, about 1858. 
 
 Bringhurst, Mrs. Nettie (Houston), Texas, is the 
 daughter of General Sam Houston. 
 
 Brock, Sallie A. See Putnam. 
 
 Bruns, John Dickson, Charleston, South Carolina, 
 1 836-1 883, was M.D. of Charleston College, and Pro- 
 fessor in New Orleans School of Medicine. Poems not 
 collected. Morituri Salutamus was written at the request 
 of the Mississippi Medical Association in 1879. 
 
 Bryan, Mrs. Mary (Edwards), Florida, 1846, novelist, 
 poet, and editor. Resides in Atlanta, Georgia. 
 
 Butler, William Orlando, Kentucky, 1 793-1 880, 
 attorney-at-law, was a soldier in the war of 18 12, and 
 Major-General in the Mexican War. 
 
APPENDIX. 319 
 
 Caruthers, Miss Jeannette, Savannah, Georgia, pub- 
 lished, in connection with her sister and a friend, a httle 
 book of poems, entitled "Three Friends' Fancies." She 
 afterwards married Mr. Peeples, of South Carolina, and 
 died in 188-. 
 
 Cawein, Madison Julius, Louisville, Kentucky, 1865, 
 has published eight volumes of poems, of which the latest 
 (Putnam, New York, 1894) is entitled, "Intimations of 
 the Beautiful." 
 
 Charlton, Robert Milledge, Savannah, Georgia, 
 1807-1854, was a brilliant member of the bar, judge of 
 the Superior Court at the age of twenty-seven, and subse- 
 quently mayor of his native city and United States senator 
 from Georgia. His poems were published in book form in 
 1838. 
 
 Clarke, John Archer, Charles City County, Virginia, 
 1 832-1 862, was a lawyer and poet. 
 
 Clarke, Mrs. Mary Bayard (Devereux), Raleigh, 
 North Carolina, 1830, wrote a volume of poems, " Mosses 
 from a Rolling Stone," and various letters and novelettes 
 for Southern periodicals under the name of ' ' Tenella. ' ' 
 She has died within the last few years. 
 
 Coleman, Charles Washington, Richmond, Virginia, 
 1862, has written much verse for standard periodicals. 
 
 Colquitt, Mrs. Mel R., Augusta, Georgia, 1848, con- 
 tributes prose and verse to periodicals. Resides in Wash- 
 ington, D.C. 
 
 Cooke, John Esten, Winchester, Virginia, 1 830-1 886, 
 was a lawyer, and a soldier in the Confederate service. 
 He wrote many novels of Virginia life, of which the best 
 known are, ' ' The Virginia Comedians, " " Surry of Eagle' s 
 Nest," and "Mohun." 
 
 Cooke, Philip Pendleton, Martinsburg, Virginia, 
 1 8 16-1850, elder brother of John Esten, wrote stories and 
 poems, but is chiefly remembered by the one lyric, " Flor- 
 ence Vane." 
 
320 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Cutter, Geo. Washington, born in Massachusetts, 
 1809, lived many years in Kentucky, and commanded a 
 company of Kentuckians in the Mexican War. Died in 
 Washington, D.C., in 1865. 
 
 Dandridge, Mrs. Danske, daughter of Henry Bed- 
 inger, American minister to Denmark, was born in Copen- 
 hagen in 1 86 1. Since her marriage, in 1877, she has re- 
 sided in Shepherdstown, West Virginia. She has pubUshed 
 a book of verse, "Joy and other Poems." 
 
 Davis, Mollie Evelyn (Moore), Alabama, 1852, spent 
 her youth in Texas, but now lives in New Orleans. As 
 Mollie E. Moore she published a book of poems in 1872, 
 and since her marriage has gained reputation as a writer 
 of fiction. She is the author of " Keren-Happuch," " In 
 War-Time," and many shorter stories. Her latest work 
 is a novel, "Under the Man-Fig" (Houghton, Mifflin & 
 Co., 1895). 
 
 Dickson, Samuel Henry, South CaroHna, 1 798-1 872, 
 physician and poet, published a volume of poems and 
 several medical works. 
 
 Dinnies, Mrs. Anna Peyre (Shackleford), George- 
 town, South Carohna, 18 16-1886, spent the last forty 
 years of her life in New Orleans. She wrote many 
 poems, most of them under the name of ' ' Moma, ' ' after- 
 wards used by " Father Ryan." 
 
 Downing, Mrs. Fanny Murdaugh, Virginia, 1835- 
 1894, wrote "Nameless," "Pluto," "Legend of Ca- 
 tawba," and other poems and stories. 
 
 Duke, R. T. W., Charlottesville, Virginia, 1853, is jurist 
 and poet. 
 
 Dumas, William T., Barnesville, Georgia, 1858, poet 
 and educator, has published a volume of verse, "The 
 Golden Day." 
 
APPENDIX. 321 
 
 Easter, Mrs. Marguerite E., author of " Clyde and 
 Other Poems," resided in Baltimore, Maryland, where she 
 died a few years ago. 
 
 Edwards, Harry Stilwell, Macon, Georgia, 1854, is 
 a journaHst, poet, and author of stories published in many 
 periodicals. 
 
 Eve, Miss Maria Louise, Augusta, Georgia, 1848, has 
 written several poems of note. For " Conquered at Last" 
 she was awarded the prize offered by the Mobile News for 
 a poem expressing the gratitude of the South for aid ren- 
 dered by Northern cities during the yellow fever epidemic 
 of 1878. 
 
 Flash, Henry Lynden, Ohio, 1835, spent his childhood 
 and youth in New Orleans. He served in the Confederate 
 army, and subsequently became an editor in Macon, 
 Georgia. Since the war he has engaged in business in 
 New Orleans and Galveston, and now resides in Los 
 Angeles, California. 
 
 FoLSOM, Montgomery M., Georgia, 1857, is a jour- 
 nalist and poet. < 
 
 Fontaine, Lamar, Texas, 183-, major in the Confed- 
 erate army, is believed to have written "All Quiet along 
 the Potomac To-night. ' ' It was, however, first published 
 in Harper s Weekly, and is claimed by Mrs. Ethel Lynn 
 Beers, of New York. 
 
 Ford, Thomas B., Kentucky, has written dramatic and 
 lyric poetry and several novels. He resides at Frankfort, 
 
 French, Mrs. L. Virginia (Smith), Virginia, 1825- 
 188 1, wrote numerous sketches and poems over the signa- 
 ture of "L'Inconnu." Later, she pubhshed a volume of 
 poems, "Wind Whispers," a tragedy, and several novels. 
 (See Meriwether.') 
 
 Gaston, William, New-Berne, North Carolina, 1778- 
 1844, was Judge of the Supreme Court of North Carolina, 
 
322 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 and author of ' ' The Old North State Forever, ' ' which has 
 been adopted as the State anthem. 
 
 Gordon, Armistead Churchill, Virginia, 1853, law- 
 yer and poet, writes in dialect, and has published a book, 
 " Befo' de War," in conjunction with Thomas Nelson 
 Page. 
 
 Grayson, William J., Beaufort, South Carohna, 1788- 
 1863, poet and statesman, wrote several long poems, of 
 which "The Hireling and the Slave," which contrasts 
 factory life with that of a plantation, is best known, 
 
 GwYN, Mrs. Laura (McClanahan), Greenville, South 
 CaroUna, 1832, published a volume of poems in i860, and 
 has continued to write. 
 
 Harney, Will Wallace, Indiana, 1831, is of Ken- 
 tucky parentage, and was brought up in that State. He 
 has been lawyer, teacher, and journalist, and now resides 
 in Florida. 
 
 Harris, Joel Chandler ("Uncle Remus"), Eatonton, 
 Georgia, 1848, has published half a dozen books of stories 
 in negro dialect. Any one of them would have made him 
 famous. He is one of the editors of the Atlanta Consti- 
 tution. 
 
 Hawks, Francis Lister, North Carolina, 1 789-1866, 
 clergyman, wrote a history of North Carohna and several 
 ecclesiastical works. 
 
 Hayne, Paul Hamilton, Charleston, South Carohna, 
 1 830-1 886, has been called the " Laureate of the South." 
 He was reared by his uncle, Robert Y. Hayne, and studied 
 law, but never practised. He served in the Confederate 
 army, and was financially ruined by the war. For twenty 
 years before his death he made his home at Copse Hill, 
 near Augusta, Georgia. 
 
 Hayne, William Hamilton, son of Paul H., Charles- 
 ton, South Carolina, 1856, has published a volume en- 
 titled "Sylvan Lyrics" (F. A. Stokes, New York). 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 323 
 
 Henderson, Philo, North Carolina, 1822-1852, was 
 the author of many fugitive poems, and editor of a paper 
 called The Hornef s Nest, in Charlotte, North Carolina. 
 "The Isle of Long Ago" has been often imitated and 
 even claimed by other writers. 
 
 Hendree, William Woodson, Selma, Alabama, 1851- 
 1872, wrote much and well during his short life. 
 
 Hening, Eliza Lewis, Virginia, 1806, daughter of the 
 eminent jurist, William Waller Hening, wrote the well- 
 known "Lines on Old Blandford Church," while visiting 
 Petersburg, Virginia, with a party of friends about 1820. 
 The lines were originally signed "Stranger." Complete 
 evidence of Miss Hening' s claim has been furnished by 
 her niece. Miss E. V. Swann, Trenholm, Virginia. Miss 
 Hening was married first to Mr. Spotswood, of Virginia, 
 and afterwards to Rev. J. F. Schermerhorn, of New 
 York. She died in 1872. 
 
 Hill, Mrs. Mary (Carter), 186 — 1890, was the daugh- 
 ter-in-law of Benjamin H. Hill. Her poem, "The 
 River," was written to commemorate the sufferings and 
 death of the latter. 
 
 Hill, Theophilus Hunter, North Carohna, 1836, 
 editor, has published three volumes of verse, the first of 
 which, " Hesper and Other Poems," was the first book 
 copyrighted by the Confederate government. 
 
 HoLCOMBE, William Henry, M.D., Virginia, 1825, 
 resided for many years in Louisiana, and has published a 
 number of books, medical, psychological, and poetical. 
 
 Hope, James Barron, Norfolk, Virginia, 1 829-1 887, 
 was a lawyer, soldier, and editor. By invitation of Con- 
 gress, he delivered at the Yorktown Centennial a metrical 
 address, "Arms and the Man," from which the extract, 
 "Washington," is taken. He published three volumes 
 of verse and a novel. His poems have recently been 
 collected in one volume by his daughter, Mrs. J. B. Hope- 
 Marr (West, Johnson & Co., Richmond). 
 
324 APPENDIX. 
 
 HuBNER, Charles W., Baltimore, Maryland, 1835, 
 journalist and poet, has resided in Atlanta since 1870. 
 He is the author of several books of poems, dramatic and 
 lyrical, and many essays. 
 
 Jackson, Henry Rootes, Athens, Georgia, 1820, sol- 
 dier, orator, poet, and jurist, was colonel in the Mexican 
 War, when "My Wife and Child" was written, and 
 major-general in the Civil War. He has contributed 
 much to periodicals and published a volume of poems. 
 Resides in Savannah. 
 
 Jay, Hamilton, New Jersey, 1846, journalist and poet, 
 has been a citizen of Jacksonville, Florida, for many years. 
 
 Jeffrey, Mrs. Rosa Vertner Johnson, nee Griffith, 
 Mississippi, 1828, poet and novelist, died in Kentucky in 
 1894. 
 
 Johnston, William Preston, Louisville, Kentucky, 
 1 83 1, is the son of General Albert Sidney Johnston. He 
 was colonel in the Confederate army, and has since been 
 noted as an educator, essayist, and biographer. He pub- 
 lished a book of poems, " My Garden Walk," in 1895. 
 Since 1883 he has been president of Tulane University, 
 New Orleans. " The Thane's Answer" is the reply of a 
 Saxon noble to a Christian missionary. 
 
 Josselyn, Robert, Massachusetts, 18 10, was admitted 
 to the bar in Virginia in 1831. He emigrated to Missis- 
 sippi, and served under Jefferson Davis in the Mexican 
 War. He was for a short time President Davis's private 
 secretary. After the war he resided at Austin, Texas. 
 He published three volumes of verse and many fugitive 
 poems which are rarely credited to their author. 
 
 JouvENAT, Mrs. M. M., Sherman, Texas, 18 5-, has 
 contributed many poems to the periodical press. 
 
 Ketchum, Mrs. Annie (Chambers) Bradford, Ken- 
 tucky, 1824, has published two volumes of poems and 
 several novels. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 325 
 
 Key, Francis Scott, Maryland, 1 779-1843, spent 
 nearly all his life in Washington City. His immortal song 
 was composed on board a British ship in Baltimore harbor, 
 in 18 14, Mr. Key had visited the British vessel to procure 
 the release of a friend, and was not allowed to depart 
 until after the attack on Fort McHenry. The bombard- 
 ment ceased during the night, and he did not know 
 whether the fort had surrendered until morning showed 
 him the star-spangled banner still waving over the battle- 
 ments. It was then that he wrote the words, on the back 
 of an old envelope. 
 
 Lamar, Mirabeau Buonaparte, Louisville, Georgia, 
 1798-1859, emigrated to Texas in 1835, ^^^ was the second 
 of the four presidents Texas had before she became a mem- 
 ber of the United States. His volume of poems is entitled, 
 "Verse Memorials." 
 
 Lanier, Clifford Anderson, Macon, Georgia, 1844, 
 is the younger brother of Sidney Lanier. He has pub- 
 lished novels, poems, and essays. He now resides in 
 Alabama. 
 
 Lanier, Sidney, Macon, Georgia, 1 842-1 881, was edu- 
 cated at Oglethorpe College, Georgia, and served in the 
 Confederate army during the war. He afterwards studied 
 and practised law in Macon, but in 1873 removed to 
 Baltimore, and devoted himself to music and literature. 
 Here he played the flute in the Peabody concerts and was 
 lecturer on Enghsh literature in Johns Hopkins University. 
 He struggled with consumption for fifteen years, and died 
 among the mountains of North Carolina, whither he had 
 gone in search of health. He wrote one novel, "Tiger 
 Lilies," also "The Science of English Verse," "The 
 English Novel," and several books for boys, besides his 
 "Poems" (Charles Scribner's Sons, New York). An ad- 
 mirable memoir, by William Hayes Ward, is prefixed to 
 the " Poems." 
 
 28 
 
326 APPENDIX. 
 
 Legare, James Mathews, South Carolina, 1 823-1 859, 
 published a book of poems, " Orta-Undis. " 
 
 Lipscomb, Andrew Adgate, D.D., Georgetown, D. C, 
 18 1 6-1 890, was chancellor of the University of Georgia 
 for fourteen years. He wrote essays, poems, and criti- 
 cisms, but is best known by his "Studies in the Forty 
 Days." 
 
 Logan, Miss Margaret Ann, Charleston, South Caro- 
 lina, 1 8 5-, resides in Vicksburg, Mississippi. She has 
 written many letters, etc., for New Orleans papers, and 
 published a book of verse, " Sweet Alyssum." 
 
 Loveman, Robert, Cleveland, Ohio, 1869, has lived 
 in Dalton, Georgia, from early childhood. He contributes 
 to many periodicals, and has published a book of poems. 
 
 McCabe, William Gordon, Virginia, 1841, was a cap- 
 tain in the Confederajte. army. Is now Head Master of 
 University School, -Petersburg. Virginia. 
 
 Malone, Mrs. Sallie Ada (Vance), Reedy, Missis- 
 sippi, 1 84- has been a fluent and popular writer of verse 
 for periodicals. She now resides in Arkansas. 
 
 Malone, Walter, Mississippi, 1866, has published 
 three books of verse, of which the latest is "Songs of 
 Dusk and Dawn" (Peter Paul Book Company, Buffalo). 
 He now resides in Memphis, Tennessee. 
 
 Marshall, Mrs. Annie Warren, Louisville, Ken- 
 tucky, 1 8 5-, has written only fugitive pieces. She resides 
 in New Mexico. 
 
 Meek, Alexander Beaufort, Columbia, South Caro- 
 lina, 1 8 14- 1 865, was educated and resided in Alabama. 
 He was lawyer, statesman, and journalist, and in his later 
 years historian, as well as poet. 
 
 Meriwether, Mrs. Lide (Smith), Virginia, 1829, has 
 spent nearly all her life in Memphis, Tennessee, where 
 she has been active in many social and charitable move- 
 ments. Her poems, with those of her sister, Mrs. L. Vir- 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 327 
 
 ginia French, have been published under the title, "One 
 or Two ?' ' 
 
 Miller, Miss Elvira Sydnor, Virginia, 1 86-, poet and 
 journalist, has made her home in Louisville, Kentucky. 
 When very young, she pubhshed a book of verse, " Songs 
 of the Heart." She is now a favorite writer in the Louis- 
 ville Times. 
 
 Moore, Mollie E. See Davis. 
 
 Nicholson, Eliza (Poitevent) (" Pearl Rivers"), Mis- 
 sissippi, 1 849-1 896, owner and editor of the New Orleans 
 Picayune, was the first woman in the world to own, manage, 
 and publish a great daily paper. She wrote verses at in- 
 tervals, and published a volume of " Lyrics." 
 
 O'Hara, Theodore, Danville, Kentucky, 1820-1867, 
 soldier, poet, and journalist, served with distinction in the 
 Mexican and Civil Wars. He died in Columbus, Georgia. 
 In 1873, by order of the Legislature of Kentucky, his 
 remains were brought to Frankfort and buried with mili- 
 tary honors in the same State cemetery in which his com- 
 rades of the Mexican War had been reinterred. It was 
 to commemorate that reinterment, in 1847, that he had 
 written "The Bivouac of the Dead." He wrote nothing 
 else of note except a similar elegiac poem, ' ' A Dirge for 
 the Brave Old Pioneer." 
 
 Ohl, Mrs. Maude (Andrews), Atlanta, Georgia, poet 
 and journalist, is a favorite writer in the Atlanta Constitu- 
 tion. 
 
 O'Malley, Charles J., Kentucky, 1857, is of Irish 
 descent, and related to the poet-priest, Father Ryan. He 
 is an editor, and has written much for leading periodicals. 
 Has pubUshed a book, "The Building of the Moon, and 
 Other Poems." 
 
 Page, Thomas Nelson, Virginia, 1853, lawyer and 
 author, is famous for his stories in the Virginia negro dia- 
 
328 APPENDIX. 
 
 lect. His poems, with those of A. C. Gordon, have been 
 published under the title, " Befo' de War" (Scribner, 
 1893). 
 
 Palmer, John Williamson, Maryland, 1825, has writ- 
 ten novels and poetry. He resides in Baltimore. 
 
 Peck, Samuel Minturn, Tuscaloosa, Alabama, 1854, 
 is a favorite writer of society verse. Has published three 
 volumes, "Cap and Bells," "Rings and Love-Knots," 
 "Rhymes and Roses" (F. A. Stokes, New York). 
 
 Piatt, Mrs. Sallie Morgan (Bryan), Kentucky, 1856, 
 is the grand-daughter of Morgan Bryan, one of the early 
 settlers of Kentucky, who came with Daniel Boone from 
 North Carolina. Since her marriage she has lived in 
 Washington, D. C, and in Ohio. Her husband is now 
 United States Consul at Kingstown, Ireland. Of her 
 numerous volumes of poems the latest is "The Witch in 
 the Glass" (Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1889). 
 
 Pike, Albert, Boston, Massachusetts, 1 809-1 867, re- 
 sided in Arkansas from early manhood. He served in 
 the Mexican War, and was brigadier-general in the Con- 
 federate army. Editor and lawyer, he wrote both prose 
 and poetry, the former chiefly on the subject of Free- 
 masonry. His personal character was high, and his 
 friends many and devoted. 
 
 PiNCKNEY, Edward Coate, London, England, 1802, 
 was born while his father, WilHam Pinckney, was minis- 
 ter to St. James. His Hfe was spent in Maryland, where 
 he died in 1828. 
 
 POE, Edgar Allan, 1809, was born in Boston, Massa- 
 chusetts, while his parents were filling a theatrical engage- 
 ment there. His father was from Baltimore, Maryland, a 
 son of General David Poe, who served his country in 1776 
 and 1 81 2. The poet, early left an orphan, was adopted 
 and educated by Mr. John Allan, of Richmond, Virginia. 
 He was connected at different times with nearly all the 
 American hterary periodicals of his day. His unhappy 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 329 
 
 life was full of errors, and ended sadly in Baltimore, 1849. 
 The teachers of that city have erected a monument over his 
 grave. He wrote stories, criticisms, and essays on various 
 subjects. His collected works fill no less than ten volumes. 
 
 Prentice, George Denison, Connecticut, 1 802-1 870, 
 emigrated to Kentucky in early life, and became identified 
 with journalism in Louisville. He will always be remem- 
 bered with gratitude as having done more than any other 
 one man to encourage Southern authorship. A life-size 
 statue of him in marble stands above the entrance to the 
 Courier- Journal building in Louisville. 
 
 Preston, Mrs. Margaret (Junkin), Philadelphia, 
 Pennsylvania, 1825, is the daughter of Dr. George Junkin, 
 who went to Lexington, Virginia, as President of Wash- 
 ington College (now Washington and Lee University), in 
 1848, and was succeeded in that office by Robert E. Lee. 
 Though a Virginian only by adoption, Mrs. Preston is truly 
 a Southerner at heart. She has written a novel, " Silver- 
 wood," a book of travels, " A Handful of Monographs," 
 and five books of verse on many subjects, of which the 
 latest is "Colonial Ballads" (Houghtoii, Mifflin & Co., 
 1887). She is now living in Baltimore. 
 
 Putnam, Mrs. Sallie A. (Brock), Virginia, 1845, 
 author of several books and compilations. 
 
 Ragsdale, Miss Lulah, Brookhaven, Mississippi, 
 1 86- has published a novel, "A Shadow's Shadow," 
 and will soon have in press a book of poems. 
 
 Randall, James Ryder, Baltimore, Maryland, 1843, 
 was educated in Georgetown, D. C, from whence he went 
 to take a professorship in Poydras College, Pointe Coupee, 
 Louisiana, where he wrote ' ' My Maryland' ' one night in 
 1 86 1. He has been engaged in journalism since the war, 
 and now resides in Baltimore. 
 
 Reese, Miss Lizette Woodworth, Maryland, 186-, 
 has published two volumes of poems, the latest of which 
 28* 
 
330 APPENDIX. 
 
 is "A Handful of Lavender" (Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 
 1893). 
 
 Reid, Christian. See Tiernan. 
 
 Requier, Augustus Julian, Charleston, South Caro- 
 lina, 1 825-1 887, jurist and poet, spent the greater part of 
 his life in Alabama. He wrote both dramatic and lyric 
 poetry, published in book-form. 
 
 Richardson, W. C, Kentucky, 1823, removed to Ala- 
 bama in 1839. He has written both prose and verse for 
 many periodicals, and has published a poetical romance, 
 entitled "Caspar." He is a professor in the University 
 of Alabama. 
 
 Rivers, Rev. William Penn, Augusta, Georgia, 1827, 
 has written much for religious papers. 
 
 Russell, Irwin, Port Gibson, Mississippi, 1853-1879, 
 was, according to Joel Chandler Harris, ' ' among the first, 
 if not the very first, to appreciate the literary possibilities 
 of the negro character." His poems have been collected 
 and printed in book-form since his death (Century Com- 
 pany, New York). 
 
 Ryan, Abram Joseph ("Father Ryan"), Norfolk, Vir- 
 ginia, 1834 (?), was a Roman Catholic priest known 
 throughout the South. He lived by turns in several 
 Southern cities, and died in Louisville in 1886. "The 
 Conquered Banner" and " The Sword of Robert Lee" are 
 printed here by permission of P. J. Kennedy, New York, 
 publisher of Ryan's poems. 
 
 Sass, George Herbert, Charleston, South CaroHna, 
 1845, is a lawyer. He has contributed poems to all the 
 leading magazines, and is also an able critic. 
 
 Shaw, John, M.D., Maryland, 1 778-1 809, pubhshed a 
 book of poems. 
 
 Shindler, Mrs. Mary S. B. Dana, nee Palmer, South 
 Carolina, 18 10, published several books of poems, many 
 of which were set to music. 
 
APPENDIX. 331 
 
 SIMMS, William Gilmore, Charleston, South Carolina, 
 1806-1870, studied law, but devoted his life to authorship. 
 He produced almost every species of writing, but is best 
 known by his novels of the Colonial and Revolutionary 
 periods of American history. He also wrote many volumes 
 of verse, all now out of print. 
 
 Stanton, Frank Lebby, Charleston, South Carolina, 
 1858, has lived in Georgia from childhood. He is the poet 
 of the Atlanta Constitution, and has published two volumes, 
 " Songs of a Day" and " Songs of the Soil" (D. Appleton 
 & Co.). 
 
 Stanton, Henry T., Kentucky, 1834, editor, soldier, 
 and poet, and now popular lecturer, has published two 
 books of verse. 
 
 Stockard, Henry Jerome, North Carolina, 1858, con- 
 tributes to nearly all the leading magazines. 
 
 Tabb, John B. ("Father Tabb"), Virginia, 1845, ^^s 
 for some years occupied a professorship in St. Charles 
 College, Maryland. He has published a volume of poems 
 (Copeland & Day, 1895). 
 
 Talley, Susan Archer. See Weiss. 
 
 Thompson, John Reuben, Richmond, Virginia, 1823- 
 1873, was educated at the University of Virginia, and 
 studied law, but turned his whole attention to literature, 
 and for twelve years edited the Southern Literary Mes- 
 senger. He wrote both prose and poetry for that and other 
 periodicals. 
 
 Thompson, Maurice, Fairfield, Indiana, 1844, spent 
 his youth and early manhood in Kentucky and Georgia, 
 and served in the Confederate army. He now lives in 
 Crawfordville, Indiana. Has written novels and short 
 stories, besides his "Poems" (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.). 
 
 Ticknor, Francis Orrery, M.D., Georgia, 1 822-1 874, 
 published a volume of poems. 
 
 Tiernan, Mrs. Frances (Fisher) (" Christian Reid"), 
 
332 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Salisbury, North Carolina, has written a number of popu- 
 lar novels. Since her marriage, in 1887, she has resided 
 in Mexico. 
 
 TiMROD, Henry, Charleston, South Carolina, 1829- 
 1867, studied law, but never practised, and was teacher 
 and editor as well as poet. Ill-health and poverty sad- 
 dened his short life. His complete poems were published 
 in 1873, with a memoir by Paul Hayne. 
 
 TiMROD, William Henry, South Carohna, 1 792-1 833, 
 was a self-educated genius, and father of the poet, Henry 
 Timrod. 
 
 TowNSEND, Mrs. Mary Ashley (Van Voorhis) 
 (" Xariffa") Lyons, New York, has resided in New Orleans 
 since her marriage in 1856. She has pubhshed three vol- 
 umes of verse, of which the latest is " Distaff and Spindle," 
 a collection of sonnets. 
 
 Tucker, St. George, born in the Bermudas, 1752- 
 1828, was the step-father of John Randolph, of Roanoke. 
 He was a distinguished jurist in Virginia, and published 
 legal as well as poetical works. 
 
 Warfield, Mrs. Catherine Anne (Ware), Natchez, 
 Mississippi, 18 16-1877, wrote several novels, of which 
 "The Household of Bouverie" is best known. She pub- 
 lished, in connection with her sister, Mrs. Lee, two volumes 
 of poems. 
 
 Watson, Mrs. Annah Robertson (Taylor), was born 
 near Louisville, Kentucky, and resides in Memphis. Her 
 essays and poems have appeared in many leading maga- 
 zines. 
 
 Watson, Asa Rogers, Virginia, 1837, lived in Georgia 
 from early manhood, and edited various journals. 
 
 Weiss, Mrs. Susan Archer (Talley), Richmond, 
 Virginia, 183-, has published a volume of poems, and has 
 others in MS. She has also contributed largely in prose 
 to periodicals. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 333 
 
 Welby, Mrs. Amelia B. (Coppuck), St. Michael's, 
 Maryland, 1 8 19, removed to Kentucky in 1834. "Poems 
 by Amelia" came out in 1845, and has gone through 
 more than twenty editions. She died in Louisville, 1852. 
 
 Wilde, Richard Henry, was born in Dubhn, Ireland, 
 in 1789, but came to America, to Maryland, when a boy 
 of nine, and soon afterwards removed to Augusta, Georgia. 
 He practised law and held several public offices, being 
 sent to Congress from Georgia. He spent several years 
 in Europe, and became very proficient in Itahan literature. 
 In 1843 he removed to New Orleans, where he died in 
 
 1847. 
 
 Wilson, Robert Burns, Pennsylvania, 1850, removed 
 in early life to Frankfort, Kentucky, where he still resides. 
 He devotes much attention to painting, but is known by 
 his poems. He has published two volumes, "Life and 
 Love" and "The Woodland Spirit." 
 
 Young, Edward, Bristol, England, 1818, came to 
 America in childhood, and spent the rest of his life in the 
 South. He has published a volume of poems, ' ' The Ladye 
 Lilian.' 
 
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