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I'll give my life for Dixie;
By JOSEPH W. HOLDEN
[These lines were included by Longfellow in his edition of 'Poems of Places' (18761879). The author, Joseph W. Holden, a son of Governor William W. Holden, was born in Raleigh, North Carolina, in 1844. He was a student at the University of North Carolina for a short time, a Confederate soldier, Mayor of Raleigh, and Speaker of the House of Representatives.
He died in 1874.]
The Wind King from the North came down
He paused, then wreathed his horn of cloud,
The angry heavens hung dark and still,
The billow checked its curling crest,
Reflected darkness weird and dread,
As though itself was sleeping there-
And not a timber creaked!
Oppressed with darkness and despair,
Rose up and shrieked!
They cried like children lost and lorn,
"Come up, come up, thou torrid god,
Can mortal tongue in song convey
False Hatteras, when the cyclone came,
And ran and wrecked yon argosy! Fore'er nine sank! That lone hulk stands Embedded in thy yellow sands.
A hundred hearts in death are stilled,
Are now caressed by thee!
And toss those skulls upon thy shore;
His children beg from door to door, And shiver while they strive to tell
How thou hast robbed the wretched poor!
Yon lipless skull shall speak for me :
"Enough are here. O heed the cry,
"I'M CONSCRIPTED, SMITH, CONSCRIPTED"
By ALBERT ROBERTS
[Albert Roberts, whose pseudonym was "John Happy," was formerly president of the American Newspaper and Publishing Company, of Nashville, Tennessee. “Twenty years ago," said Colonel Watterson in 1882, "he was the liveliest of the young journalists of the South; and did more to brighten the camp-fires of both armies than any of his contemporaries.". The poem is, of course, a parody, and a very clever one, of General William Haines Lytle's "Antony and Cleopatra.”]
I'm conscripted, Smith, conscripted.
Ebb the subterfuges fast,
Gather with the evening blast.
Hush your gab and close your ear,
Hunting for you—far and near.
Though my scarred, rheumatic “trotters"
Bear me limping short no more,
Won't exempt me as before;
Prompt to do their master's will,
Die the great conscripted still.
Let not the seizer's servile minions
Mock the lion thus laid low!
Whiskey straight-out struck the blow.
Ere he's hurried quite away,
Madly threw himself away.
Should the base, plebeian rabble
Under their protecting wings,
Where the shell and Minie sings.
I'm conscripted, Smith--conscripted
Hark! you hear that grabber's cry-
Take you to the front to die.
There to die, decay, and swell;
Sweet Octavia-Smith ! farewell!
THE ISLE OF LONG AGO
['This poem has been described as "a wind-driven waif upon the great sea of American newspapers,” It has been the subject of numerous newspaper controversies, the authorship being ascribed with equal confidence to Philo Henderson, of North Carolina, and to Benjamin Franklin Taylor, of Lowville, N.Y.].
Oh, a wonderful stream is the River of Time,
As it flows through the realm of tears, With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, And a broad'ning sweep and a surge sublime
As it blends with the Ocean of Years.