THE WOMEN OF THE SOUTH TO THE
You stand upon the chasm's brink,
That yawns so deadly deep,
Ready to bridge the rift-we think-
And dare the noble leap :
So!-fill this rent with purpose bold-
Right wars, red deeds of shame ;
And Curtius, with his legend old,
Will pale before your name.
We meddle not with questions high;
The holier office ours
To follow where men lead, and try
To hide the flints with flowers.
We sought, through all our mortal strife,
To succour, soothe, sustain;
And not one Southern maid nor wife
Has grudged the cost or pain.
So now, when might has won the day,
When hopes and aims are cross'd,
We cheer, uphold, as best we may,
The hearts whose all is lost.
Rebellious-outlaw'd-what you will,
We dare a boon to crave;
We trust that calm forbearance still,
Against such odds-so brave!
For sons, for husbands, not one plea!
For men, to whom you give,
With unupbraiding leniency,
Free right-broad room-to live!
But with a tender woman's claim,
Warm in our souls, we come,
Strong in the spell-word of a name
That holds denial dumb.
He in whose more than regal chair
You sit supreme to-day-
Could He, unmoved, uncensuring, bear
That wrong should wrest away
What calm'd a dying father's breast,*
As with rare tear and moan
Within his childless arms he press'd
The babes, thence named "his own?"
His own? Yet she-sole daughter left
Of all that stately race,
An exile wanders sad-bereft
Of certain dwelling-place;
Within her old ancestral halls
The hearths no beams reflect;
And over lawn and garden falls
The mildew of neglect.
The blood allied to Washington,
Spurn'd from the rights he gave!
Denied the vaunted justice done
To every home-born slave!
Tell not the brood of Askelon-
Let Gath not hear afar;
Lest kingdoms sneer it, one to one-
"How base Republics are!"
You do not war with women
Let such your boast still be;
* See Irving's "Washington"—"Death of Col. Custis."
We do not ask a single rood
Of ground for Mary Lee:
Yet though our hero's wife be bann'd,
As touch'd with treason's stain-
For Mary Custis we demand
Her Arlington again!
BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN.
(From "The Lord of the Isles.")
THEN hand to hand in battle set,
The bills with spears and axes met,
And, closing dark on every side,
Raged the full contest far and wide.
Then was the strength of Douglas tried,
Then proved was Randolph's gen'rous pride,
And well did Stewart's action's grace
The sire of Scotland's royal race!
Firmly they kept their ground;
As firmly England onward press'd,
And down went many a noble crest,
And rent was many a valiant breast,
And slaughter revell'd round.
Unflinching foot 'gainst foot was set,
Unceasing blow by blow was met ;
The groans of those who fell
Were drown'd amid the shriller clang
That from the blades and harness rang,
And in the battle yell.
Yet fast they fell, unheard, forgot,
Both Southron fierce and hardy Scot;
And oh! amid that waste of life,
What various motives fired the strife!
The aspiring noble bled for fame,
The patriot for his country's claim;
This knight his youthful strength to prove,
And that to win his lady's love;
Some fought from ruffian thirst of blood,
From habit some, or hardihood.
But ruffian stern and soldier good,
The noble and the slave,
From various cause the same wild road,
On the same bloody morning, trode,
To that dark inn, the grave!
The tug of strife to flag begins,
Though neither loses yet, nor wins.
High rides the sun, thick rolls the dust,
And feebler speeds the blow and thrust.
Douglas leans on his war-sword now,
And Randolph wipes his bloody brow ;
Nor less had toil'd each Southron knight
From morn till mid-day in the fight.
Strong Egremont for air must gasp,
Beauchamp undoes his visor-clasp,
And Montague must quit his spear,
And sinks thy falchion, bold De Vere !
The blows of Berkley fall less fast,
And gallant Pembroke's bugle blast
Hath lost its lively tone;
Sinks, Argentine, thy battle word,
And Percy's shout was fainter heard,
"My merry men, fight on!"
Bruce, with the pilot's wary eye,
The slackening of the storm could spy :-
"One effort more, and Scotland's free!
Lord of the Isles, my trust in thee
Is firm as Ailsa Rock;
Rush on with Highland sword and targe,
I, with my Carrick spearmen, charge;
Now, forward to the shock !"
At once the spears were forward thrown,
Against the sun the broadswords shone ;
The pibroch lent its maddening tone,
And loud King Robert's voice was known-
Carrick, press on-they fail, they fail !
Press on, brave sons of Innisgail,
The foe is fainting fast!
Each strike for parent, child, and wife,
For Scotland, liberty, and life,—
The battle cannot last!
The fresh and desperate onset bore
The foes three furlongs back and more,
Leaving their noblest in their gore.
Alone De Argentine
Yet bears on high his red-cross shield,
Gathers the relics of the field,
Renews the ranks where they have reel'd,
And still makes good the line.
Already scatter'd o'er the plain,
Reproof, command, and counsel vain,
The rearward squadrons fled amain,
Or made but doubtful stay ;-
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