Heard ye that thrilling word--
Accent of dread--
Fall, like a thunderbolt,
Bowing each head?
Over the battle dun,
Over each booming gun--
Ashby, our bravest one!
Ashby is dead!

Saw ye the veterans--
Hearts that had known
Never a quail of fear,
Never a groan--
Sob, though the fight they win,
Tears their stern eyes within--
Ashby, our Paladin,
Ashby is dead!

Dash, dash the tear away--
Crush down the pain!
Dulce et decus, be
Fittest refrain!
Why should the dreary pall,
Round him, be flung at all?
Did not our hero fall
Gallantly slain!

Catch the last words of cheer,
Dropt from his tongue;
Over the battle's din,
Let them be rung!
"Follow me! follow me!"
Soldier, oh! could there be
PÆan or dirge for thee,
Loftier sung?

Bold as the lion's heart--
Dauntlessly brave--
Knightly as knightliest
Bayard might crave;
Sweet, with all Sydney's grace.
Tender as Hampden's face,
Who now shall fill the space,
Void by his grave?

'Tis not one broken heart,
Wild with dismay--
Crazed in her agony,
Weeps o'er his clay!
Ah! from a thousand eyes,
Flow the pure tears that rise--
Widowed Virginia lies
Stricken to-day!

Yet, charge as gallantly,
Ye, whom he led!
Jackson, the victor, still
Leads, at your head!
Heroes! be battle done
Bravelier, every one
Nerved by the thought alone--
Ashby is dead!

Sacrifice.

I.

Another victim for the sacrifice!
Oh! my own mother South,
How terrible this wail above thy youth,
Dying at the cannon's mouth,--
And for no crime--no vice--
No scheme of selfish greed--no avarice,
Or insolent ambition, seeking power;--.
But that, with resolute soul and will sublime,
They made their proud election to be free,--
To leave a grand inheritance to time,
And to their sons and race, of liberty!

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.