Dirge for Ashby. HEARD ye that thrilling word Accent of dread! Bowing each head? Ashby, our bravest one! Ashby is dead ! Saw ye the veterans Hearts that had known Never a quail of fear, Never a groanSob ’mid the fight they win, Tears their stern eyes within ? Ashby, our paladin ! Ashby is dead ! Dash, dash the tear away! Crush down the pain ! Dulce et decus be Fittest refrain. Why should the dreary pall Gallantly slain ? Catch the last words of cheer Dropped from his tongue ! Let them be rung! Loftier sung? Bold as the Lion's Heart Dauntless and brave; Knightly as knightliest Bayard could crave; Sweet-with all Sidney's graceTender as Hampden's faceWho, who shall fill the space, Void by his grave? 'Tis not one broken heart, Wild with dismay Crazed in her agony Weeps o'er his clay! Ah! from a thousand eyes Flow the pure tears that riseWidowed VIRGINIA lies Stricken to-day! Yet, charge as gallantly, Ye whom he led! Jackson, the victor, still Stands at your head ! Heroes ! be battle done, Bravelier every one, Nerved by the thought alone Ashby is dead! J Ballad for the young South. MEN of the South! Our foes are up In fierce and grim array; An insult to the day ! In sanctimonious hordes, A million ruthless swords. From North, and East, and West, they seek The same disastrous goal, With CHRIST upon the lying lip, And Satan in the soul ! Mocking, with ancient shibboleth, All wise and just restraints: “To saints of Heaven was empire given, And WE, alone, are saints !" A preacher to the pulpit comes And calls upon the crowd, To weave a bloody shroud. Beside the prayer-book, on his desk, The bullet-mould is seen; The dagger's stately sheen; No more is fondly told, Too heavily with gold; Becomes a sign of Baal, The clansmen of the Gael! Hark to the howling demagogues A fierce and ravenous pack- That close upon our track: They bind our hearts no more ; Down with the stately edifice, Cemented with their gore! Forget the legends of our race- Efface each wise decree-Americans nyaneel as slaves, Till Africans are free! |