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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!
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!
Dulce et decus be
Why should the dreary pall
Catch the last words of cheer
Over the volley's din
Let them be rung!
"Follow me! Follow me!"
Bold as the Lion's Heart-
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―
Yet, charge as gallantly,
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
The saints of Cromwell rise again,
Hiding behind the garb of peace
From North, and East, and West, they seek
The same disastrous goal,
With CHRIST upon the lying lip,
Mocking, with ancient shibboleth,
"To saints of Heaven was empire given,
A preacher to the pulpit comes
For Southern creeds and Southern hopes
Beside the prayer-book, on his desk,
The dagger's stately sheen;
No more is fondly told,
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-
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!