Only a soldier's grave! Pass by,
For soldiers, like other mortals, die.
Parents he had--they are far away;
No sister weeps o'er the soldier's clay;
No brother comes, with a tearful eye:
It's only a soldier's grave--pass by.

True, he was loving, and young, and brave,
Though no glowing epitaph honors his grave;
No proud recital of virtues known,
Of griefs endured, or of triumphs won;
No tablet of marble, or obelisk high;--
Only a soldier's grave--pass by.

Yet bravely he wielded his sword in fight,
And he gave his life in the cause of right!
When his hope was high, and his youthful dream
As warm as the sunlight on yonder stream;
His heart unvexed by sorrow or sigh;--
Yet,'tis only a soldier's grave:--pass by.

Yet, should we mark it--the soldier's grave,
Some one may seek him in hope to save!
Some of the dear ones, far away,
Would bear him home to his native clay:
'Twere sad, indeed, should they wander nigh,
Find not the hillock, and pass him by.

The Guerilla Martyrs.

I.

Ay, to the doom--the scaffold and the chain,--
To all your cruel tortures, bear them on,
Ye foul and coward Hangmen;--but in vain!--
Ye cannot touch the glory they have won--
And win--thus yielding up the martyr's breath
For freedom!--Theirs is a triumphant death!--
A sacred pledge from Nature, that her womb
Still keeps some sacred fires;--that yet shall burst,
Even from the reeking ravage of their doom,
As glorious--ay, more glorious--than the first!
Exult, shout, triumph! Wretches, do your worst!
'Tis for a season only! There shall come
An hour when ye shall feel yourselves accurst;
When the dread vengeance of a century
Shall reap its harvest in a single day;
And ye shall howl in horror;--and, to die,
Shall be escape and refuge! Ye may slay;
But to be cruel and brutal, does not make
Ye conquerors; and the vulture yet shall prey
On living hearts; and vengeance fiercely slake
The unappeasable appetite ye wake,
In the hot blood of victims, that have been,
Most eager, binding freemen to the stake,--
Most greedy, in the orgies of this sin!

II.

Ye slaughter,--do ye triumph? Ask your chains,
Ye Sodom-hearted butchers!--turn your eyes,
Where reeks yon bloody scaffold; and the pains,
Ungroaned, of a true martyr, ere he dies,
Attest the damned folly of your crime,
Now at its carnival! His spirit flies,
Unscathed by all your fires, through every clime,
Into the world's wide bosom. Thousands rise,
Prompt at its call, and principled to strike
The tyrants and the tyrannies alike!--
Voices, that doom ye, speak in all your deeds,
And cry to heaven, arm earth, and kindle hell!
A host of freemen, where one martyr bleeds,
Spring from his place of doom, and make his knell
The toscin, to arouse a myriad race,
T'avenge Humanity's wrong, and wipe off man's disgrace!

III.

We mourn not for our martyrs!--for they perish,
As the good perish, for a deathless faith:
Their glorious memories men will fondly cherish,
In terms and signs that shall ennoble death!
Their blood becomes a principle, to guide,
Onward, forever onward, in proud flow,
Restless, resistless, as the ocean tide,
The Spirit heaven yields freedom here below!
How should we mourn the martyrs, who arise,
Even from the stake and scaffold, to the skies;--
And take their thrones, as slars; and o'er the night,
Shed a new glory; and to other souls,
Shine out with blessed guidance, and true light,
Which leads successive races to their goals!

Charleston Mercury.

"Libera Nos, O Domine!"