Chapter II

Oh! widow'd woman, sitting in thy weeds, With thy young brood around thee, sad and lone, Thy fancy sees thy hero where he bleeds, And still thou hear'st his moan! Dying he calls on thee--again--again! With blessing and fond memories. Be of cheer; He has not died--he did not bless--in vain: For, in the eternal rounds of GOD, HE squares The account with sorrowing hearts; and soothes the fears, And leads the orphans home, and dries the widow's tears.

Charleston Mercury.

Sonnet.

Written in 1864.

What right to freedom when we are not free? When all the passions goad us into lust; When, for the worthless spoil we lick the dust, And while one-half our people die, that we May sit with peace and freedom 'neath our tree, The other gloats for plunder and for spoil: Bustles through daylight, vexes night with toil, Cheats, swindles, lies and steals!--Shall such things be Endowed with such grand boons as Liberty Brings in her train of blessings? Should we pray That such as these should still maintain the sway-- These soulless, senseless, heartless enemies Of all that's good and great, of all that's wise, Worthy on earth, or in the Eternal Eyes!

Charleston Mercury.

Grave of A. Sydney Johnston.

By J. B. Synnott.

The Lone Star State secretes the clay
Of him who led on Shiloh's field,
Where mourning wives will stop to pray,
And maids a weeping tribute yield.

In after time, when spleen and strife
Their madd'ning flame shall have expired,
The noble deeds that gemm'd this life
By Age and Youth will be admired.

As o'er the stream the boatmen rove
By Pittsburg Bend at early Spring,
They'll show with moist'ning eye the grave
Where havoc spread her sable wing.

There, 'neath the budding foliage green,
Ere Night evolved her dewy breath,
While Vict'ry smiled upon the scene,
Our Chieftain met the blow of death.

Great men to come will bless the brave;
The soldier, bronzed in War's career,
Shall weave a chaplet o'er his grave,
While Mem'ry drops the glist'ning tear.

Though envy wag her scorpion tongue,
The march of Time shall find his fame;
Where Bravery's loved and Glory's sung,
There children's lips shall lisp his name.

"Not Doubtful of Your Fatherland."

I.

Not doubtful of your fatherland,
Or of the God who gave it;
On, Southrons! 'gainst the hireling band
That struggle to enslave it;
Ring boldly out
Your battle-shout,
Charge fiercely 'gainst these felon hordes:
One hour of strife
Is freedom's life,
And glory hangs upon your swords!

II.

A thousand mothers' matron eyes,
Wives, sisters, daughters weeping,
Watch, where your virgin banner flies,
To battle fiercely sweeping:
Though science fails,
The steel prevails,
When hands that wield, own hearts of oak:
These, though the wall
Of stone may fall,
Grow stronger with each hostile stroke.

III.

The faith that feels its cause as true,
The virtue to maintain it;
The soul to brave, the will to do,--
These seek the fight, and gain it!
The precious prize
Before your eyes,
The all that life conceives of charm,
Home, freedom, life,
Child, sister, wife,
All rest upon your soul and arm!

IV.

And what the foe, the felon race,
That seek your subjugation?
The scum of Europe, her disgrace.
The lepers of the nation.
And what the spoil
That tempts their toil,
The bait that goads them on to fight?
Lust, crime, and blood,
Each fiendish mood
That prompts and follows appetite.