THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY.

BY FRANK TICKNOR, M. D.

_Sic Jurat._

The knightliest of the knightly race, Who, since the days of old, Have kept the lamp of chivalry Alight in hearts of gold; The kindliest of the kindly band Who rarely hated ease, Who rode with Smith around the land And Raleigh round the seas!

Who climbed the blue Virginia hills, Amid embattled foes, And planted there, in valleys fair, The lily and the rose; Whose fragrance lives in many lands, Whose beauty stars the earth, And lights the hearths of many homes With loveliness and worth!

We thought they slept! the sons who kept The names of n.o.ble sires, And slumbered while the darkness crept Around their vigil fires!

But still the Golden Horseshoe knights, Their Old Dominion keep, Whose foes have found enchanted ground, But not a knight asleep.

TORCH HALL, GA.

C. S. A.

BY FATHER ABRAM J. RYAN.

Do we weep for the heroes who died for us, Who, living, were true and tried for us, And, dying, sleep side by side for us; The martyr band That hallowed our land With the blood they shed in a tide for us?

Ah! fearless on many a day for us, They stood in the front of the fray for us, And held the foeman at bay for us; And tears should fall Fore'er o'er all Who fell while wearing the gray for us.

How many a glorious name for us, How many a story of fame for us They left: Would it not be a blame for us If their memories part From our land and heart, And a wrong to them, and a shame for us?

No, no, no! they were brave for us, And bright were the lives they gave for us; The land they struggled to save for us Will not forget Its warriors yet Who sleep in so many a grave for us.

On many and many a plain for us Their blood poured down all in vain for us, Red, rich, and pure, like a rain for us; They bleed--we weep, We live--they sleep, "All lost," the only refrain for us.

But their memories e'er shall remain for us, And their names, bright names, without stain for us; The glory they won shall not wane for us, In legend and lay Our heroes in gray Shall forever live over again for us.

THE SWEET SOUTH.

BY WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.

O the sweet South! the sunny, sunny South!

Land of true feeling, land forever mine!

I drink the kisses of her rosy mouth, And my heart swells as with a draught of wine; She brings me blessings of maternal love; I have her smile which hallows all my toil; Her voice persuades, her generous smiles approve, She sings me from the sky and from the soil!

O, by her lonely pines that wave and sigh!

O, by her myriad flowers, that bloom and fade, By all the thousand beauties of her sky, And the sweet solace of her forest shade, She's mine--she's ever mine-- Nor will I aught resign Of what she gives me, mortal or divine; Will sooner part With life, hope, heart-- Will die--before I fly!

O, love is hers--such love as ever glows In souls where leap affection's living tide; She is all fondness to her friends; to foes She glows a thing of pa.s.sion, strength, and pride; She feels no tremors when the danger's nigh, But the fight over and the victory won, How, with strange fondness, turns her loving eye In tearful welcome on each gallant son!

O! by her virtues of the cherished past-- By all her hopes of what the future brings-- I glory that my lot with her is cast, And my soul flushes and exulting sings; She's mine--she's ever mine-- For her will I resign All precious things--all placed upon her shrine; Will freely part With life, hope, heart-- Will die--do aught but fly!

THE SOUTHERN CROSS.[19]

BY MRS. ELLEN KEY BLUNT.

In the name of G.o.d! Amen!

Stand for our Southern rights!

Arm, ye Southern men, The G.o.d of Battle fights!

Fling the invaders far, Hurl back their work of woe, The voice is the voice of a brother, But the hands are the hands of a foe.

They come with a trampling army, Invading our native sod-- Stand, Southrons! fight and conquer!

In the name of the Mighty G.o.d!

They're singing _our_ song of triumph[20]

Which was made to make us free, While they're breaking away the heartstrings Of our nation's harmony.

Sadly it floateth from us, Sighing o'er land and wave, Till mute on the lips of the poet, It sleeps in his Southern grave.

Spirit and song departed!

Minstrel and minstrelsy!

We mourn thee, heavy-hearted, But we will, we shall be free!

They are waving _our_ flag above us, With a despot's tyrant will; With our blood they have stained its colors, And call it holy still.

With tearful eyes, but steady hand, We'll tear its stripes apart, And fling them like broken fetters, That may not bind the heart; But we'll save our stars of glory, In the might of the sacred sign Of Him who has fixed forever Our Southern Cross to shine.

Stand, Southrons! stand and conquer!

Solemn and strong and sure!

The strife shall not be longer Than G.o.d shall bid endure.

By the life which only yesterday Came with the infant's breath, By the feet which ere the morn may Tread to the soldier's death!

By the blood which cries to Heaven!

Crimson upon our sod!

Stand, Southrons! stand and conquer!

In the name of the Mighty G.o.d!

PARIS, 1862.

PATRIOTISM.

The holy fire that nerved the Greek To make his stand at Marathon, Until the last red foeman's shriek Proclaimed that Freedom's fight was won, Still lives unquenched--unquenchable!

Through every age its fires will burn-- Lives in the hermit's lonely cell, And springs from every storied urn!

The hearthstone embers hold the spark Where fell Oppression's foot hath trod; Through Superst.i.tion's shadow dark It flashes to the living G.o.d!