THE ANGEL OF MARYE'S HEIGHTS

By WALTER A. CLARK

[In this poem the author narrates an act of heroism performed by Richard Kirkland, of Kershaw's Brigade, at Fredericksburg, Virginia, December 13, 1862. Mr. Clark was born at Brothersville (now Hephzibah), Georgia, in 1842, and is the author, among other publications, of "Lost Arcadia, or the Story of Old Time Brothersville." Confederate soldier and belonged to the famous Oglethorpe Infantry.]

A sunken road and a wall of stone

And Cobb's grim line of grey

Lay still at the base of Marye's hill

On the morn of a winter's day.

And crowning the frowning crest above
Sleep Alexander's guns,

While gleaming fair in the sunlit air

The Rappahannock runs.

On the plains below, the blue lines glow,

And the bugle rings out clear,

As with bated breath they march to death

And a soldier's honored bier.

For the slumbering guns awake to life

And the screaming shell and ball

From the front and flanks crash through the ranks

And leave them where they fall.

And the grey stone wall is ringed with fire

And the pitiless leaden hail

Drives back the foe to the plains below,

Shattered and crippled and frail.

Again and again a new line forms

And the gallant charge is made,

And again and again they fall like grain
In the sweep of the reaper's blade.

And then from out of the battle smoke,
There falls on the lead swept air,

From the whitening lips that are ready to die
The piteous moan and the plaintive cry
For "Water" everywhere.

He was a

And into the presence of Kershaw brave,
There comes a fair faced lad,
With quivering lips, as his cap he tips,
"I can't stand this," he said.

"Stand what?" the general sternly said,
As he looked on the field of slaughter;
"To see those poor boys dying out there,
With no one to help them, no one to care
And crying for 'Water! Water!'

"If you'll let me go, I'll give them some.'
"Why, boy, you're simply mad;

They'll kill you as soon as you scale the wall
In this terrible storm of shell and ball,"
The general kindly said.

"Please let me go," the lad replied. "May the Lord protect you, then," And over the wall in the hissing air, He carried comfort to grim despair, And balm to the stricken men.

And as he straightened the mangled limbs
On their earthen bed of pain,

The whitening lips all eagerly quaffed

From the canteen's mouth the cooling draught And blessed him again and again.

Like Daniel of old in the lions' den,
He walked through the murderous air,
With never a breath of the leaden storm
To touch or to tear his grey clad form,
For the hand of God was there.

And I am sure in the Book of Gold,
Where the blessèd Angel writes

The names that are blest of God and men,
He wrote that day with his shining pen,
Then smiled and lovingly wrote again
"The Angel of Marye's Heights."

TO MR. H. W. MORAN

By HENRY MAZYCK CLARKSON

['Songs of Love and War,' 1898.]

You wonder, my friend, why so seldom I print
The fanciful thought which I weave into verse;
You flatter my Muse by your delicate hint
Of fame in the future, or gold in my purse:
You ask why I write, if but few are to read;
You talk of the wasting of talent and time;
I covet not fame, am accustomed to need,

And men do not offer their riches for rhyme.

Consider the lark! How he rises on wing,

And mounts to the sky through ethereal air! He sings as he soars; 'tis his nature to sing,

To warble his notes tho' no listener be near: I seek not for fortune, I sigh not for fame, I follow my Muse into forest or street; In sorrow, in gladness, I sing all the same, I sing because singing itself is so sweet.

COLD WATER

By NEEDHAM BRYAN COBB

['Poetical Geography of North Carolina and Other Poems,' 1887.]

Come, weary, thirsty mortals,

Who 'neath life's burdens sink,
Come, try this sparkling nectar,
And ask your friends to drink.

'Tis not from sim'ring still-worms,
Where, over smoking fires,
'Mid stifling pois'nous vapors
The bruised grain expires.

'Tis not from sick'ning odors
Of putrefying corn

And rye and wheat and barley,
This beverage is born.

But up in lofty mountains,
Where mighty rivers rise
In leaping, laughing rivulets
Just born of humid skies;

Where storm clouds brood and thunder,
And lightnings leap and flash,
And glittering granite boulders
Fall headlong in the crash-

Or where the red deer wander
O'er grassy glen and glade,
And rippling rills meander,
This beverage was made.

'Twas brewed in grand old ocean Where tossing sea-gulls scream; When hurricanes are howling,

And livid lightnings gleam—

When waves are surging wildly,
The sea in anger roars,

And wrecks and shells and sea-weeds
Are dashed upon the shores.

From clouds upon the mountains,
From mists of lowly fens,
From froth of briny billows,
From rills amid the glens-

From all the mighty rivers,
From every glassy lake,
From every dew and raindrop

That falls upon the brake,

From every foggy hill-top,
From every dewy plain,
Our Maker is distilling
This beverage for man.

It glistens in the raindrops;
It dances on the hills;
It laughs along the rivulets,
And sings among the rills;

Then, creeping through the meadows,
It glides into the brooks,
Where lazily it lingers
In many muddy nooks.

Till, meeting other waters,
It rushes on its way,
And in the mighty river
It marches to the sea.

There with the briny billows
It mingles in the main
To be distilled in sea-fog
And dew and mist again,

Then rising from the ocean,
'Tis blown o'er hill and plain,
To feed again the mountain springs
And water man's domain.

No poison from it bubbles;
No headache from it comes;
It starves no wives and children;
It desolates no homes;

But shining in the ice-gem,
Or sparkling on the grain,
Gleaming in the glacier,
Or singing in the rain,