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Dirge for Ashby.

HEARD ye that thrilling word

Accent of dread!

Fall like a thunderbolt,

Bowing each head? Over the battle dunOver each booming gun

Ashby, our bravest one!
Ashby is dead!

Saw ye the veterans

Hearts that had known

Never a quail of fear,

Never a groan― Sob '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
Round him be flung at all?
Did not our hero fall,
Gallantly slain ?

Catch the last words of cheer
Dropped from his tongue!

Over the volley's din

Let them be rung!

"Follow me! Follow me!"
Soldier! oh! could there be
Pæan, or dirge for thee
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 face-Who, 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 rise—
Widowed 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 aloneAshby is dead!

A Ballad for the Young South.

MEN of the South! Our foes are up
In fierce and grim array;
Their sable banner laps the air--
An insult to the day!

The saints of Cromwell rise again,
In sanctimonious hordes,

Hiding behind the garb of peace
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,

For Southern creeds and Southern hopes
To weave a bloody shroud.

Beside the prayer-book, on his desk,
The bullet-mould is seen;
And near the Bible's golden clasp,

The dagger's stately sheen;
The simple tale of Bethlehem

No more is fondly told,
For every priestly surplice drags
Too heavily with gold;

The blessed Cross of Calvary

Becomes a sign of Baal,

Like that which played when chieftains raised The clansmen of the Gael!

Hark to the howling demagogues-
A fierce and ravenous pack-

With nostrils prone, and bark, and bay,

That close upon our track:

"Down with the laws our fathers made!

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 nineel as slaves, Till Africans a free!

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