The Poetical Works of Mrs. Leprohon Part 19

The good thou may'st on earth have done, Love to a brother shown-- Pardon to foe--alms unto need-- Kind word or gentle tone; The treasures thus laid up in Heav'n By the good on earth done now, These will alone remain to thee, In a few short years from now.

TO THE SOLDIERS OF PIUS NINTH.

Warriors true, 'tis no false glory For which now you peril life,-- For no worthless aim unholy, Do ye plunge into the strife; No unstable, fleeting vision Bright before your gaze hath shone, No day dream of wild ambition, Now your footsteps urges on:

But a cause both great and glorious, Worthy of a Christian's might, One which yet shall be victorious,-- 'Tis the cause of G.o.d and right: Men! by aim more pure and holy Say, could soldiers be enticed?

Strike for truth and conscience solely, Strike for Pius and for Christ.

Even like the brave Crusaders-- Heroes true and tried of old, You would check the rash invaders Of all that we sacred hold.

And though hosts your steps beleaguer, Full of might and martial pride; For the conflict be you eager-- G.o.d Himself will be your guide!

Soldiers of the Cross, remember In the cause you fight for now, 'Tis not earthly wreaths you gather To adorn the dauntless brow; But the laurels bright--unfading, Never from you to be riven-- Which will yet your brows be shading In the s.h.i.+ning courts of Heaven.

COME, TELL ME SOME OLDEN STORY.

I.

Come tell me some olden story Of Knight or Paladin, Whose sword on the field of glory Bright laurel wreaths did win: Tell me of the heart of fire His courage rare did prove; Speak on--oh! I will not tire-- But never talk of love.

II.

Or, if thou wilt, I shall hearken Some magic legend rare-- How the Wizard's power did darken The sunny summer air: Thou'lt tell of Banshee's midnight wail, Or corpse-light's ghastly gleam-- It matters not how wild the tale So love be not thy theme.

III.

Or, perhaps thou may'st have travelled On distant, foreign strand, Strange secrets have unravelled In many a far-off land; Describe each castle h.o.a.ry, Each fair or frowning sh.o.r.e-- But should love blend in thy story I'll list thy voice no more.

IV.

Thou askest with emotion, Why am I thus so cold, Urging all thy past devotion, Well known--well tried of old; Hus.h.!.+ bend a little nearer That sad, o'erclouded brow-- Could love vows make thee dearer To me than thou art now!

REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS.

DIED JANUARY 26th, 1864, THE HON. JAMES B.

CLAY, OF ASHLANDS, KENTUCKY, ELDEST SON OF THE ILl.u.s.tRIOUS HENRY CLAY.

Another pang for Southern hearts, That of late so oft have bled, Another name to add to the roll Of their mighty, patriot dead; A vacant place 'mid that phalanx proud.

Of which each glorious name Is dear to a mighty nation's heart, And dear to undying fame.

The G.o.d-given gift of genius his, The patriot's holy fire, For he we mourn was a worthy son Of a great and glorious sire: Ah! whate'er the changes time may bring, Shall never pa.s.s away From the people's mind, in North or South, The deathless name of Clay.

Yet an exile in a foreign land, His spirit pa.s.sed from earth, Far from the old dear scenes of home, The loved land of his birth,-- The land he had well and truly served, With heart, with sword, with pen, Since first he had joined the march of life, By the side of his fellow men.

No Southern breezes, soft and sweet, Played around his dying bed, No Southern flowers in glowing bloom, Rich fragrance round him shed; The wintry light of a Northern sky, Earth robed in snowy vest, Were the scenes that met his yearning gaze As he pa.s.sed into his rest

But near him gathered devoted hearts, Wife, children, at his side, Wept bitter tears while hushed they looked, With fond, revering pride, On him who had ever been to them, Throughout his life's career, A model of all that honor high, Or virtue holds most dear.

And other mourners leaves he too, Who had learned to love him well.

Though short the time since he had come, Within our midst to dwell: Friends who will keep his name fore'er 'Mid those they we set apart, To cherish deeply, and revere, Within their inmost heart.

Montreal, Jan. 27, 1864

WHEN WILL IT END?

Written during the Civil War in the United States.

O when will it end, this appalling strife, With its reckless waste of human life, Its riving of highest, holiest ties, Its tears of anguish and harrowing sighs, Its ruined homes from which hope has fled, Its broken hearts and its countless dead?

In fair Virginia the new-made graves Lie crowded thick as old ocean's caves; Whether sword or sickness dealt the blow, What matters it?--They lie cold and low; And Maryland's heights are crimsoned o'er, And its green vales stained, with human gore.

The stalwart man in the prime of life, Sole stay of frail children and helpless wife; The bright-eyed, ardent, and beardless boy, Of some mother's fond breast the pride and joy, And the soldier-love, the idol rare Of maiden and matron, gentle and fair.

The men of the North so dauntless and free, The flower of the Southland chivalry, The best and the bravest on either side, Their citizen soldier, the nation's pride, Carelessly cast in each narrow, dank bed, And fruitlessly numbered among the dead.

Are you nearer the end than when Sumter's gun Answered the summons of Charleston, And the nation plunged in this deadly strife, That has wrecked its happiness, wealth and life,-- Say what is your answer to foe or friend?

"'Tis a strife of which none can guess the end."

Oh! keep your young strength for some stranger foe, Let not brother's rash hand lay brother low; Remember one soil your childhood nursed, In the past together your bonds you burst; Together for freedom you learned to strike, And brave Was.h.i.+ngton honored you both alike.

You have proved to the nations your mutual might; You have proved you can suffer, struggle and fight; By hundreds and thousands lie heaped your slain, Your life-blood crimsons hill, stream and plain; Prove of n.o.bler struggle you are able yet, And your mutual wrongs forgive and forget.

Oh, Father of mercies! stay now each hand, Put back in its sheath the blood stained brand, Whisper sage counsel to rulers proud, Calm the wrath of the people, fierce and loud, So that their hates and their strife may cease, And their land know once more the boon of peace.