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Cool, calm, and clear the lucid flood
In which its tempering work was done;
Be thou whene'er it sees the sun;
For outraged friend, insulted maid,
I give iny soldier boy a blade.
The eye which marked its peerless edge,
The hand that weighed its balanced poise,
Are gone with all their flame and noise;
So when in dust I low am laid,
I give my soldier boy a blade.
By MISS MARIE RAVENEL DE LA COSTE
("There are many famous poems," says Miss Rutherford, in 'The South in History and Literature,' "that appeared during the war, written by persons who possibly did not write more than one isolated poem, So far as we know this was true of Marie de la Coste, of Savannah, Georgia, the author of “Somebody's Darling.” As it was written at the time when loved ones were daily dying in hospital wards, the poem touched tender chords of sympathy, and at once became one of the loved Confederate' poems, was put into every scrap-book, and recited on every school stage." Miss La Coste (not Costa) is still living and is a distinguished teacher of French.)
Into a ward of the whitewashed walls
Where the dead and the dying lay,
Somebody's darling was borne one day.
Wearing still on his pale, sweet face
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;
Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from the beautiful blue-veined brow
Brush every wandering silken thread, Cross his hands on his bosom now
Somebody's darling is still and dead!
Kiss him once for somebody's sake;
Murmur a prayer both soft and low; One bright curl from its fair mates take
They were somebody's pride, you know. Somebody's hand has rested there;
Was it a mother's soft and white ? Or have the lips of a sister fair
Been baptized in those waves of light?
God knows best! He was somebody's love;
Somebody's heart enshrined him there, Somebody wafted his name above,
Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away,
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,
Yearning to hold him again to her heart; And there he lies--with his blue eyes dim,
And the smiling, childlike lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead,
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; Carve on the wooden slab o'er his head,
"Somebody's darling slumbers here.”
By DR. JOHN SHAW [Dr. Shaw, a surgeon in the lavy, was born at Annapolis, Maryland, May 4, 1778, and died at sea, January 10, 1809. An edition of his poems was published in Philadela phia in 1810.]
Who has robb'd the ocean cave,
To tinge thy lips with coral hue?
Who, from yonder orient sky,
Stole the morning of thine eye?
From sea, and earth, and air are torn;
Guard thy bosom from the day,
Lest thy snows should melt away.
Which mute earth can ne'er impart;
Fairest! wouldst thou perfect be,
SONG OF THE TEXAS RANGERS
Air: The Yellow Rose of Texas
[This song has been widely circulated through the newspapers. Its authorship has been ascribed to Mrs. Maud J. [Fuller] Young, of North Carolina and Texas; but the question is still an open one.]
The morning star is paling,
The camp-fires flicker low;
For the bugle bids us go.
And shake the bridle free,
Must cross the Tennessee.
With Wliarton for our leader,
We'll chase the dastard foe,
In the deep blue Ohio.
Our men are from the prairies,
That roll broad and proud and free, From the high and craggy mountains
To the murmuring Mexic sea; And their hearts are open as their plains,
Their thoughts as proudly brave As the bold cliffs of the San Bernard,
Or the Gulf's resistless wave. Then quick into the saddle,
And shake the bridle free, To-day with gallant Wharton,
We cross the Tennessee.
'Tis joy to be a Ranger!
To fight for dear Southland; 'Tis joy to follow Wharton,
With his gallant, trusty band ! 'Tis joy to see our Harrison,
Plunge like a meteor bright Into the thickest of the fray,
And deal his deathly might. Oh! who'd not be a Ranger,
And follow Wharton's cry! To battle for his country
And, if it needs bedie!
By the Colorado's waters,
On the Gulf's deep murmuring shore, On our soft green peaceful prairies
Are the homes we may see no more; But in those homes our gentle wives,
And mothers with silv'ry hairs, Are loving us with tender hearts,
And shielding us with prayers.
So, trusting in our country's God,
We draw our stout, good brand,
Our altars and our land.
Up, up with the crimson battle-flag
Let the blue pennon fly;
They hear the battle-cry!
Proclaim the foe is near;
And all we hold most dear.
And shake the bridle free,
For home and Victory!
THE SOUTHERN REPUBLIC
By OLIVIA TULLY THOMAS
[The author of this once celebrated poem was a Mississippian. She is not known to have written anything else.]
In the galaxy of nations,
A nation's flag's unfurled,
The nations of the world.
Yet mighty from the time,
Dismembered, yet sublime,
And braver heart, and bolder hand,
Ne'er formed a fabric fair
And Southern valor rear.
Or recognize her birth,
Will reign supreme on earth.