Chapter VI

On brothers, comrades, men,
Rush to the field again;
Home, peace, love, safety--freedom--are the prize!
Strike! while an arm can bear
Weapon--and do not spare--
Ye break a felon bond in every foe that dies!

Missing.

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 a 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 man, 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 each quiet limb,
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 a sad surprise;
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 dreams 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.

Ode-"Souls of Heroes."

Charleston Mercury.

Souls of heroes, ascended from fields ye have won, Still smile on the conflict so greatly begun; Bring succor to comrade, to brother, to son Now breasting the battle in ranks of the brave; And the dastard that loiters, the conflict to shun, Pursue him with scorn to the grave!

II.

Pursue him with furies that goad to despair, Hunt him out, where he crouches in crevice and lair, Drive him forth, while the wife of his bosom cries--"There Goes the coward that skulks, though his sister and wife Tremble, nightly, in sleep, overshadowed by fear Of a sacrifice dearer than life."

III.

There are thousands that loiter, of historied claim, Who boast of the heritage shrined in each name-- Sting their souls to the quick, till they shrink from the shame Which dishonors the names and the past of their boast; Even now they may win the best guerdon of fame, And retrieve the bright honors they've lost!

IV.

Even now, while their country is torn in the toils, While the wild boar is raging to raven the spoils, While the boa is spreading around us the coils Which would strangle the freedom our ancestors gave; But each soul must be quickened until it o'er-boils, Every muscle be corded to save!

V.

Still the cause is the same which, in long ages gone, Roused up your great sires, so gallantly known, When, braving the tyrant, the sceptre and throne, They rushed to the conflict, despising the odds; Armed with bow, spear, and scythe, and with sling and with stone, For their homes and their family gods!

VI.

Shall we be less worthy the sacrifice grand, The heritage noble we took at their hand, The peace and the comfort, the fruits of the land; And, sunk in a torpor as hopeless as base, Recoil from the shock of the Sodomite band, That would ruin the realm and the race?