Part 25
On! on! like the rushing of storms through the hills, On! on! with a tramp that is firm as their wills, And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and thrills, As they pause by the River.
Then the wan face of Maryland, haggard and worn, At that sight, lost the touch of its aspect forlorn, And she turned on the Foeman full statured in scorn, Pointing stern to the River.
And Potomac flowed calm, scarcely heaving her breast, With her low-lying billows all bright in the west, For the hand of the Lord lulled the waters to rest Of the fair rolling River.
Pa.s.sed! pa.s.sed! the glad thousands march safe through the tide.
(Hark, Despot! and hear the wild knell of your pride, Ringing weird-like and wild, pealing up from the side Of the calm flowing River.)
'Neath a blow swift and mighty the Tyrant shall fall, Vain! vain! to his G.o.d swells a desolate call, For his grave has been hollowed, and woven his pall, Since they pa.s.sed o'er the River.
TRUE TO THE GRAY.
BY PEARL RIVERS.
I can not listen to your words, the land is long and wide; Go seek some happy Northern girl to be your loving bride; My brothers they were soldiers--the youngest of the three Was slain while fighting by the side of gallant FITZHUGH LEE!
They left his body on the field (your side the day had won), A soldier spurn'd him with his foot--_you_ might have been the one; My lover was a soldier--he belonged to GORDON'S band; A saber pierced his gallant heart--_yours_ might have been the hand.
He reel'd and fell, but was not dead, a horseman spurred his steed, And trampled on the dying brain--_you_ may have done the deed: I hold no hatred in my heart, no cold, unrighteous pride, For many a gallant soldier fought upon the other side:
But still I can not kiss the hand that smote my country sore, Nor love the foes who trampled down the colors that she bore; Between my heart and yours there rolls a deep and crimson tide-- My brother's and my lover's blood forbid me be your bride.
The girls who loved the boys in gray--the girls to country true-- May ne'er in wedlock give their hands to those who wore the blue.
TELL THE BOYS THE WAR IS ENDED.
BY EMILY J. MOORE.
While in the first ward of the Quintard Hospital, Rome, Georgia, a young soldier, from the Eighth Arkansas Regiment, who had been wounded at Murfreesboro', called me to his bedside. As I approached I saw that he was dying, and when I bent over him he was just able to whisper, "Tell the boys the war is ended."
"Tell the boys the war is ended,"
These were all the words he said; "Tell the boys the war is ended,"
In an instant more was dead.
Strangely bright, serene, and cheerful Was the smile upon his face, While the pain, of late so fearful, Had not left the slightest trace.
"Tell the boys the war is ended,"
And with heavenly visions bright Thoughts of comrades loved were blended, As his spirit took its flight.
"Tell the boys the war is ended,"
"Grant, O G.o.d, it may be so,"
Was the prayer which then ascended, In a whisper deep, though low.
"Tell the boys the war is ended,"
And his warfare then was o'er, As by angel bands attended, He departed from earth's sh.o.r.e.
Bursting sh.e.l.ls and cannons roaring Could not rouse him by their din; He to better worlds was soaring, Far from war, and pain, and sin.
BURN THE COTTON.
BY ESTELLE.
Burn the cotton! burn the cotton!
Let the solemn triumph rise; Fanned by Freedom's breath, its white wing Spreads her banner to the skies.
"Melt the bells" is but re-echoed O'er our valley's gathered pride, Lay the cotton on the altar Where our loved have n.o.bly died.
Burn the cotton! burn the cotton!
Does this sacrifice compare With the battle-field red flowing With the brave hearts offered there?
They no more shall strike for Freedom, Never worship at her shrine-- To hurl back the fell invader, To avenge them--it is thine.
Burn the cotton! burn the cotton!
Down the Mississippi's tide Let it thunder, till its valleys Catch the echo, far and wide-- Frowning in its wrath, it rises, Spreads its dark wing o'er the land, Vetoes, in its swelling fury, Gain, to lure the robber band.
Burn the cotton! burn the cotton!
Pile the white fleece high and higher, Till the heavens reflect the glory Kindled by the patriot's fire.
This shall teach the haughty foeman, Startle him too late, to find Chains were never made for freemen, Chains the Southern heart to bind.
Burn the cotton! burn the cotton!
Flaming sparks, instead of seed, Shall be sown in death and terror To the mongrel Yankee breed; And the _crowns_ who nod attendance On the treacherous Federal's lure, Feel too late the want and ruin, Unjust favor can not cure.
Burn the cotton! burn the cotton!
Let the record boldly stand; Not a bale for "filthy lucre"-- _All_ for Freedom to our land.
Burn the cotton! burn the cotton!
From its ashes there shall spring Heralds of a new-born nation, Claiming still that "Cotton's King!"
MEMPHIS, TENN., _May 16, 1862_.
THE PRINTERS OF VIRGINIA TO "OLD ABE."
BY HARRY C. TREAKLE.
Though we're exempt, we're not the _metal_ To keep in when duty calls; But onward we will _press_, to settle This knotty _case_, with leaden _b.a.l.l.s_; For our dear old mother State, the _fount_ From which we each our life did _take_, Is _locked up_ by a Vandal horde, And the honor of the _craft_'s at stake.
For _lean-faced_ Lincoln's after us-- His slim _shanks_ moving like a scout; But long before his _job_ is done, He'll find that all his _quads_ are _out_.
For with Lee our _headline_--worthy _guide_-- We, _galley_-slaves will never be, But still _press_ onward by his side, For that _fat take_, sweet liberty!
