Dirge for Ashby. HEARD ye that thrilling word Accent of dread! Fall like a thunderbolt, Over the battle dun Over 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! Crush down the pain! Dulce et decus be Fittest refrain. Why should the dreary pall Did not our hero fall, Gallantly slain? Catch the last words of cheer Over the volley's din Let them be rung! "Follow me! Follow me!" Soldier! oh! could there be Pæan, or dirge for thee Bold as the Lion's Heart Dauntless and brave; Knightly as knightliest Bayard could crave; Sweet-with all Sidney's grace Tender as Hampden's face Who, who shall fill the space, '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, Stands at your head! Heroes! be battle done, Bravelier every one, Nerved by the thought alone Ashby 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 simple tale of Bethlehem 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- With nostrils prone, and bark, and bay, "Down with the laws our fathers made! They bind our hearts no more; Forget the legends of our race—- Till Africans a free! |