Not 'midst the lightning of the stormy fight
Not in the rush upon the vandal foe,
Did kingly death, with his resistless might,
Lay the great leader low!

His warrior soul its earthly shackles bore
In the full sunshine of a peaceful town;
When all the storm, was hushed, the trusty oak
That propped our cause, went down.

Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground,
Recording all his grand heroic deeds,
Freedom herself is writhing with his wound,
And all the country bleeds.

He entered not the nation's "Promised Land,"
At the red belching of the cannon's mouth;
But broke the "House of Bondage" with his hand--
The Moses of the South!

Oh, gracious God! not gainless is our loss:
A glorious sunbeam gilds Thy sternest frown;
And while his country staggers with the cross--
He rises with the crown!

"Stonewall" Jackson.--A Dirge.

Go to thy rest, great chieftain!
In the zenith of thy fame;
With the proud heart stilled and frozen,
No foeman e'er could tame;
With the eye that met the battle
As the eagle's meets the sun,
Rayless-beneath its marble lid,
Repose-thou mighty one!

Yet ill our cause could spare thee;
And harsh the blow of fate
That struck its staunchest pillar
From 'neath our dome of state.
Of thee, as of the Douglas,
We say, with Scotland's king,
"There is not one to take his place
In all the knightly ring."

Thou wert the noblest captain
Of all that martial host
That front the haughty Northman,
And put to shame his boast.
Thou wert the strongest bulwark
To stay the tide of fight;
The name thy soldiers gave thee
Bore witness of thy might!

But we may not weep above thee;
This is no time for tears!
Thou wouldst not brook their shedding,
Oh! saint among thy peers!
Couldst thou speak from yonder heaven,
Above us smiling spread,
Thou wouldst not have us pause, for grief,
On the blood-stained path we tread!

Not--while our homes in ashes
Lie smouldering on the sod!
Not--while our houseless women
Send up wild wails to God!
Not--while the mad fanatic
Strews ruin on his track!
Dare any Southron give the rein
To feeling, and look back!

No! Still the cry is "onward!"
This is no time for tears;
No I Still the word is "vengeance!"
Leave ruth for coming years.
We will snatch thy glorious banner
From thy dead and stiffening hand,
And high, 'mid battle's deadly storm,
We'll bear it through the land.

And all who mark it streaming--
Oh! soldier of the cross!--
Shall gird them with a fresh resolve
Sternly to avenge our loss;
Whilst thou, enrolled a martyr,
Thy sacred mission shown,
Shalt lay the record of our wrongs
Before the Eternal throne!

Beaufort.