  1823=1873. John Reuben Thompson was born at Richmond, and educated at the University of Virginia. He studied law, but practised little, and in 1847 became editor of the “Southern Literary Messenger.” This position he filled with great success for twelve years and he exerted a fine influence on the literary taste and effort of his times. In this magazine first appeared the writings of Donald G. Mitchell (“Dream Life” and “Reveries of a Bachelor”), the early pieces of John Esten Cooke, Philip Pendleton Cooke, Paul Hamilton Hayne, Henry Timrod, and others. His delicate health induced him to resign his place in 1859 and to go farther south to Augusta, Georgia, as editor of the “Southern Field and Fireside.” In 1863 he travelled in Europe and his descriptive letters are very bright and His writings, consisting of poems, letters, sketches, and editorials, are found mainly in the “Southern Literary Messenger” and “The Land We Love.” ASHBY.To the brave all homage render, Weep, ye skies of June! With a radiance pure and tender, Shine, oh saddened moon! “Dead upon the field of glory,” Hero fit for song and story, Lies our bold dragoon. Well they learned, whose hands have slain him, Braver, knightlier foe Never fought with Moor nor Paynim, Rode at Templestowe; With a mien how high and joyous, ’Gainst the hordes that would destroy us Went he forth we know. Never more, alas! shall sabre Gleam around his crest; Fought his fight; fulfilled his labour; Stilled his manly breast. All unheard sweet Nature’s cadence, Trump of fame and voice of maidens, Now he takes his rest. Earth that all too soon hath bound him, Gently wrap his clay; Linger lovingly around him, Light of dying day; Softly fall the summer showers, Birds and bees among the flowers Make the gloom seem gay. When his sword is rust, And his deeds in classic pages, Mindful of her trust, Shall Virginia, bending lowly, Still a ceaseless vigil holy Keep above his dust! MUSIC IN CAMP.Two armies covered hill and plain, Where Rappahannock’s waters Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain Of battle’s recent slaughters. The summer clouds lay pitched like tents In meads of heavenly azure; And each dread gun of the elements Slept in its hid 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.” 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. Again a pause, and then again The trumpets 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 bugles 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, And 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 feeling. 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. In April’s tearful weather, The vision vanished, as the strain And daylight died together. 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. |
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