Songs and Ballads of the Southern People Part 22

Silent is all without Save the sentry's challenge grim, And a hush sinks down o'er the weary town And the sleeper's eyes are dim.

Watchman, what of the night?

Hark! from the old church tower Rings loud and clear, on the wintry air, The chime of the midnight hour.

But another sound breaks in, A summons deep and rude, The roll of the drum, and the rush and hum Of a gathering mult.i.tude.

And the dim and flickering torch Sheds a red and lurid glare, O'er the long dark line, where bayonets s.h.i.+ne Faintly, yet sternly there.

A low, deep voice is heard: "Rest on your arms, my men."

Then the muskets clank through each serried rank, And all is still again.

Pale faces and tearful eyes Gaze down on that grim array, For a rumor hath spread that that column dread Marcheth ere break of day.

Marcheth against "the rebels,"

Whose camp lies heavy and still, Where the driving sleet and the cold rain beat On the brow of a distant hill.

And the mother's heart grows faint, As she thinks of her darling one, Who perchance may lie 'neath that wintry sky, Ere the long, dark night be done.

Pallid and haggard, too, Is the cheek of the fair young wife; And her eye grows dim as she thinks of him She loveth more than life.

For fathers, husbands, sons, Are the "rebels" the foe would smite, And earnest the prayer for those lives so dear, And a bleeding country's right.

And where their treasure is, There is each loving heart; And sadly they gaze by the torch's blaze, And the tears unbidden start.

Is there none to warn the camp, None from that anxious throng?

Ah, the rain beats down o'er plain and town-- The way is dark and long.

No _man_ is left behind, None that is brave and true, And the bayonets bright, in the lurid light, With menace stern s.h.i.+ne through.

Guarded is every street, Brutal the hireling foe; Is there one heart here will boldly dare So brave a deed to do?

Look! in her still, dark room, Alone a woman kneels, With Care's deep trace on her pale, worn face And Sorrow's ruthless seals.

Wrinkling her placid brow, A matron, she, and fair, Though wan her cheek, and the silver streak Gemming her glossy hair.

A moment in silent prayer Her pale lips move, and then, Through the dreary night, like an angel bright, On her mission of love to men.

She glideth upon her way, Through the lonely, misty street, Shrinking with dread as she hears the tread Of the watchman on his beat.

Onward, ay, onward still, Far past the weary town, Till languor doth seize on her feeble knees, And the heavy hands hang down.

But bravely she struggles on, Breasting the cold, dank rain, And, heavy and chill, the mist from the hill Sweeps down upon the plain.

Hark! far behind she hears A dull and m.u.f.fled tramp; But before her the gleam of the watch-fire's beam s.h.i.+nes out from the Southern camp.

She hears the sentry's challenge, Her work of love is done; She has fought a good fight, and on Fame's proud height Hath a crown of glory won.

Oh, they tell of a Tyrol maiden, Who saved from a ruthless foe Her own fair town, 'mid its mountains brown, Three hundred years ago.

And I've read in tales heroic How a n.o.ble Scottish maid Her own life gave, her king to save From foul a.s.sa.s.sin's blade.

But if these, on the rolls of honor, Shall live in lasting fame, Oh, close beside, in grateful pride, We'll write this matron's name.

And when our fair-haired children Shall cl.u.s.ter round our knee, With wondering gaze, as we tell of the days When we swore that we would be free,

We'll tell them the thrilling story, And we'll say to each childish heart, "By this gallant deed, at thy country's need, Be ready to do thy part."

_Southern Field and Fireside._

LAND OF THE SOUTH.

BY A. F. LEONARD.

AIR--"_Friend of my Soul_."

Land of the South! the fairest land Beneath Columbia's sky!

Proudly her hills of freedom stand, Her plains in beauty lie.

Her dotted fields, her traversed streams Their annual wealth renew.

Land of the South! in brightest dreams No dearer spot we view.

Men of the South! a free-born race, They vouch a patriot line; Ready the foemen's van to face, And guard their country's shrine.

By sire and son a haloing light Through time is borne along-- They "nothing ask but what is right, And yield to nothing wrong."

Fair of the South! rare beauty's crown Ye wear with matchless grace; No cla.s.sic fair of old renown Deserve a higher place.

Your vestal robes alike become The palace and the cot; Wives, mothers, daughters! every home Ye make a cherished spot.

Flag of the South! aye, fling its folds Upon the kindred breeze; Emblem of dread to tyrant holds-- Of freedom on the seas.

Forever may its stars and stripes In cloudless glory wave; Red, white, and blue--eternal types Of nations free and brave!

States of the South! the patriot's boast!

Here equal laws have sway; Nor tyrant lord, nor despot host, Upon the weak may prey.

Then let them rule from sea to sea, And crown the queenly isle-- Union of love and liberty, 'Neath Heaven's approving smile!

G.o.d of the South! protect this land From false and open foes!

Guided by Thine all-ruling hand, In vain will hate oppose.

So mote the s.h.i.+p of State move on Upon the unfathomed sea; Gallantly o'er its surges borne, The bulwark of the free.

THERE'S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET!

BY JAS. R. RANDALL.