SOUTH SONGS. Your Mission.") FOLD away all your bright-tinted dresses, No more delicate gloves-no more laces, Look around! By the torch-light unsteady, Before your dear mission's begun? These wounds are more precious than ghastly; Time presses her lips to each scar, As she chaunts of a glory which vastly Pause here by this bedside-how mellow Here's another; a lad-a mere stripling- With the blood through his sunny hair rippling They say he was first in the action, Gay-hearted, quick-handed, and witty; He fought, till he fell with exhaustion, At the gates of our fair Southern city. Fought and fell 'neath the guns of that city, Touch him gently-most sacred the duty Who groaned? What a passionate murmur— Should e'er work such woe on another! Wipe the sweat from his brow with your kerchief; See! he stretches out blindly to search if Pass on! It is useless to linger While others are claiming your care; |