You can Never in them Back. You can never win them back Never! never! Though they perish on the track Of your endeavor: Though their corses strew the earth, And blood pollutes each hearth- They have risen to a man, Stern and fearless; Of your boasting and your ban They are careless; Every hand has grasped its knife, Every gun is primed for strife, Every palm contains a life High and peerless ! You have no such blood as theirs For the shedding! In the veins of cavaliers Was its heading: You have no such noble men In your 66 abolition den," To march through foe and fen- They may fall before the fire Of your legions, Paid with gold for murderous hire Bought allegiance! But for every drop you shed They will make a mound of dead, That the vultures may be fed In our regions! But the battle to the strong Is not given. While the Judge of right and wrong Sits in heaven While the God of David still Guides the pebble, with His will— There are giants yet to kill Wrongs unshriven ! Beauregard's Appeal. (×) YEA! though the need is bitter, Take down those sacred bells! Whose music speaks of our hallowed joys But ere ye fall dismantled, Ring out, deep Bells! once more: And pour on the waves of the passing wind The symphonies of yore: Let the latest born be welcomed By pealings glad and long; Let the latest dead in the churchyard bed, And the bells above them throbbing, Who says 'tis a desecration To strip the Temple Towers, A truce to cant and folly! With Faith itself at stake, Shall we heed the cry of the shallow fool, Then, crush the struggling sorrow! Feed high your furnace fires, That shall mould into deep-mouthed guns of bronze, The Bells from a hundred spires. Methinks no common vengeance— Will follow the awful thunder burst A cause like ours is holy, And useth holy things; And over the storm of a righteous strife, Where'er our duty leads us, The Grace of God is there, And the lurid shrine of War may hold The Eucharist of prayer. The Cameo Bracelet. EVA sits on the ottoman there, Sits by a Psyche carved in stone, With just such a face and just such an air As Esther upon her throne. She's sifting lint for the brave who bled, A bracelet clinks on her delicate wrist, And full on the bauble-crest alway- I thought of the war-wolves on our trailTheir gaunt fangs sluiced with gouts of blood |