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Somebody's hand hath rested there;
God knows best. He was somebody's love;
Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.
Looking so handsome, brave and grand; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay;
Somebody clung to his parting hand
Somebody's watching and waiting for him,
And smiling, child-like lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead,
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear, Carve on the wooden slab at his head, "Somebody's darling lies buried here!"
Monody on Jackson.
Ar, toll! toll! toll!
Toll the funeral bell!
So let its mournful echoes roll
From sphere to sphere, from pole to pole, O'er the flight of the greatest, kingliest soul That ever in battle fell.
Yes, weep! weep! weep!
Weep for the hero fled!
For Death, the greatest of soldiers, at last
Then toll! and weep! and mourn!
For Jackson, whose deeds made the nation proud,
Whose very name was a war-song loud,
With the "crimson cross " for his martial shroud
Now sleeps his long sleep in the grave.
His form has passed away
His voice is silent and still
No more, at the head of "the old brigade
He fell as a hero should fall;
'Mid the thunder of war he died.
While the rifle cracked and the cannon roared,
And the blood of the friend and foeman poured,
Virginia, his mother, is bowed;
Her eyelids heavy and low.
From all the South comes the wailing moan,
Rest, warrior! rest!
Rest in thy laureled tomb!
Thy mem'ry shall live to earth's latest years,
Thy deeds shall not perish in gloom!
A POEM FOR THEN AND NOW.
WHO talks of Coercion? who dares to deny
Who prates of Coercion? can love be restored
To bosoms where only resentment may dwell? Can peace on earth be proclaimed by the sword,
Or good-will among men be established by shell?
Shame! shame!—that the statesman and trickster, forsooth,
Should have for a crisis no other recourse, Beneath the fair day-spring of light and of truth, Than the old brutum fulmen of tyranny,-force!
From the holes where Fraud, Falschood, and Hate slink away;
From the crypt in which Error lies buried in chains;
This foul apparition stalks forth to the day, And would ravage the land which his presence profanes.
Could you conquer us, Men of the North-could you bring
Desolation and death on our homes as a floodCan you hope the pure lily, Affection, will spring From ashes all reeking and sodden with blood?
Could you brand us as villains and serfs, know ye
What fierce, sullen hatred lurks under the scar? How loyal to Hapsburg is Venice, I wot!
How dearly the Pole loves his Father, the Czar!
But 'twere well to remember this land of the sun
Who brook not oppression and know not disgrace.
And well may the schemers in office beware
The swift retribution that waits upon crime, When the lion, RESISTANCE, shall leap from his lair, With a fury that renders his vengeance sublime.