Old home! what blessings late were yours;
The gifts of peace, the songs of joy!
Now, hostile squadrons seek your shores,
To ravage and destroy.
The Northman comes no longer there,
With soft address and measured phrase,
With bated breath, and sainted air,
And simulated praise.
He comes a vulture to his prey;
A wolf to raven in your streets:
Around on shining stream and bay
Gather his bandit fleets.
They steal the pittance of the poor;
Pollute the precincts of the dead;
Despoil the widow of her store,--
The orphan of his bread.
Crimes like their crimes--of lust and blood,
No Christian land has known before;
Oh, for some scourge of fire and flood,
To sweep them from the shore!
Exiles from home, your people fly,
In adverse fortune's hardest school;
With swelling breast and flashing eye--
They scorn the tyrant's rule!
Away, from all their joys away,
The sports that active youth engage;
The scenes where childhood loves to play,
The resting-place of age.
Away, from fertile field and farm;
The oak-fringed island-homes that seem
To sit like swans, with matchless charm,
On sea-born sound and stream.
Away, from palm-environed coast,
The beach that ocean beats in vain;
The Royal Port, your pride and boast,
The loud-resounding main.
Away, from orange groves that glow
With golden fruit or snowy flowers,
Roses that never cease to blow,
Myrtle and jasmine bowers.
From these afar, the hoary bead
Of feeble age, the timid maid,
Mothers and nurslings, all have fled,
Of ruthless foes afraid.
But, ready, with avenging hand,
By wood and fen, in ambush lie
Your sons, a stern, determined band,
Intent to do or die.
Whene'er the foe advance to dare
The onset, urged by hate and wrath,
Still have they found, aghast with fear,
A Lion in the path.
Scourged, to their ships they wildly rush,
Their shattered ranks to shield and save,
And learn how hard a task to crush
The spirit of the brave.
Oh, God! Protector of the right,
The widows' stay, the orphans' friend,
Restrain the rage of lawless might,
The wronged and crushed defend!
Be guide and helper, sword and shield!
From hill and vale, where'er they roam,
Bring back the yeoman to his field,
The exile to his home!
Pastors and scattered flocks restore;
Their fanes rebuild, their altars raise;
And let their quivering lips once more
Rejoice in songs of praise!
The Empty Sleeve.
By Dr. J. R. Bagby, Of Virginia.
Tom, old fellow, I grieve to see
The sleeve hanging loose at your side
The arm you lost was worth to me
Every Yankee that ever died.
But you don't mind it at all;
You swear you've a beautiful stump,
And laugh at that damnable ball--
Tom, I knew you were always a trump.
A good right arm, a nervy hand,
A wrist as strong as a sapling oak,
Buried deep in the Malverri sand--
To laugh at that, is a sorry joke.
Never again your iron grip
Shall I feel in my shrinking palm--
Tom, Tom, I see your trembling lip;
All within is not so calm.
Well! the arm is gone, it is true;
But the one that is nearest the heart
Is left--and that's as good as two;
Tom, old fellow, what makes you start?
Why, man, she thinks that empty sleeve
A badge of honor; so do I,
And all of us:--I do believe
The fellow is going to cry!
"She deserves a perfect man," you say;
"You were not worth her in your prime:"
Tom! the arm that has turned to clay,
Your whole body has made sublime;
For you have placed in the Malvern earth
The proof and pledge of a noble life--
And the rest, henceforward of higher worth,
Will be dearer than all to your wife.
I see the people in the street
Look at your sleeve with kindling eyes;
And you know, Torn, there's naught so sweet
As homage shown in mute surmise.
Bravely your arm in battle strove,
Freely for Freedom's sake, you gave it;
It has perished--but a nation's love
In proud remembrance will save it.
Go to your sweetheart, then, forthwith--
You're a fool for staying so long--
Woman's love you'll find no myth,
But a truth; living, tender, strong.
And when around her slender belt
Your left is clasped in fond embrace,
Your right will thrill, as if it felt,
In its grave, the usurper's place.
As I look through the coming years,
I see a one-armed married man;
A little woman, with smiles and tears,
Is helping--as hard as she can
To put on his coat, to pin his sleeve,
Tie his cravat, and cut his food;
And I say, as these fancies I weave,
"That is Tom, and the woman he wooed."
The years roll on, and then I see
A wedding picture, bright and fair;
I look closer, and its plain to me
That is Tom with the silver hair.
He gives away the lovely bride,
And the guests linger, loth to leave
The house of him in whom they pride--
"Brave old Tom with the empty sleeve."
The Cotton-Burners' Hymn.
"On yesterday, all the cotton in Memphis, and throughout the country, was burned. Probably not less than 300,000 bales have been burned in the last three days, in West Tennessee and North Mississippi."--Memphis Appeal.
I.
Lo! where Mississippi rolls
Oceanward its stream,
Upward mounting, folds on folds,
Flaming fire-tongues gleam;
'Tis the planters' grand oblation
On the altar of the nation;
'Tis a willing sacrifice--
Let the golden incense rise--
Pile the Cotton to the skies!
CHORUS--Lo! the sacrificial flame
Gilds the starry dome of night!
Nations! read the mute acclaim--
'Tis for liberty we fight!
Homes! Religion! Right!
II.
Never such a golden light
Lit the vaulted sky;
Never sacrifice as bright,
Rose to God on high:
Thousands oxen, what were they
To the offering we pay?
And the brilliant holocaust--
When the revolution's past--
In the nation's songs will last!
CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc.
III.
Though the night be dark above,
Broken though the shield--
Those who love us, those we love,
Bid us never yield:
Never! though our bravest bleed,
And the vultures on them feed;
Never! though the Serpents' race--
Hissing hate and vile disgrace--
By the million should menace!
CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc.
IV.
Pile the Cotton to the skies;
Lo! the Northmen gaze;
England! see our sacrifice--
See the Cotton blaze!
God of nations! now to Thee,
Southrons bend th' imploring knee;
'Tis our country's hour of need--
Hear the mothers intercede--
Hear the little children plead!
CHORUS-Lo! the sacrificial flame, etc.
Reading the List.
"Is there any news of the war?" she said--
"Only a list of the wounded and dead,"
Was the man's reply,
Without lifting his eye
To the face of the woman standing by.
"'Tis the very thing--I want," she said;
"Read me a list of the wounded and dead."
He read the list--'twas a sad array
Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray;
In the very midst, was a pause to tell
Of a gallant youth, who fought so well
That his comrades asked: "Who is he, pray?"
"The only son of the Widow Gray,"
Was the proud reply
Of his Captain nigh.
What ails the woman standing near?
Her face has the ashen hue of fear!
"Well, well, read on; is he wounded? quick!
Oh God! but my heart is sorrow-sick!"
"Is he wounded? No! he fell, they say,
Killed outright on that fatal day."
But see, the woman has swooned away!
Sadly she opened her eyes to the light;
Slowly recalled the events of the fight;
Faintly she murmured: "Killed outright!
It has cost me the life of my only son;
But the battle is fought, and the victory won;
The will of the Lord, let it be done!"
God pity the cheerless Widow Gray,
And send from the halls of eternal day,
The light of His peace to illumine her way!
His Last Words.
"A few moments before his death (Stonewall Jackson) he called out in his delirium: 'Order A.P. Hill to prepare for action. Pass the infantry rapidly to the front. Tell Major Hawks--.' Here the sentence was left unfinished. Bat, soon after, a sweet smile overspread his face, and he murmured quietly, with an air of relief: 'Let us cross the river and rest under the shade of the trees.' These were his last words; and, without any expression of pain, or sign of struggle, his spirit passed away."
I.
Come, let us cross the river, and rest beneath the trees,
And list the merry leaflets at sport with every breeze;
Our rest is won by fighting, and Peace awaits us there.
Strange that a cause so blighting produces fruit so fair!
II.
Come, let us cross the river, those that have gone before,
Crush'd in the strife for freedom, await on yonder shore;
So bright the sunshine sparkles, so merry hums the breeze,
Come, let us cross the river, and rest beneath the trees.
III.
Come, let us cross the river, the stream that runs so dark:
'Tis none but cowards quiver, so let us all embark.
Come, men with hearts undaunted, we'll stem the tide with ease,
We'll cross the flowing river, and rest beneath the trees.
IV.
Come, let us cross the river, the dying hero cried,
And God, of life the giver, then bore him o'er the tide.
Life's wars for him are over, the warrior takes his ease,
There, by the flowing river, at rest beneath the trees.
Charge of Hagood's Brigade.
