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 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 And then from out of the battle smoke, From the whitening lips that are ready to die He was a And into the presence of Kershaw brave, "Stand what?" the general sternly said, "If you'll let me go, I'll give them some.' They'll kill you as soon as you scale the wall "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 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, And I am sure in the Book of Gold, The names that are blest of God and men, TO MR. H. W. MORAN By HENRY MAZYCK CLARKSON ['Songs of Love and War,' 1898.] You wonder, my friend, why so seldom I print 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, 'Tis not from sim'ring still-worms, 'Tis not from sick'ning odors And rye and wheat and barley, But up in lofty mountains, Where storm clouds brood and thunder, Or where the red deer wander 'Twas brewed in grand old ocean Where tossing sea-gulls scream; When hurricanes are howling, And livid lightnings gleam— When waves are surging wildly, And wrecks and shells and sea-weeds From clouds upon the mountains, From all the mighty rivers, That falls upon the brake, From every foggy hill-top, It glistens in the raindrops; Then, creeping through the meadows, Till, meeting other waters, There with the briny billows Then rising from the ocean, No poison from it bubbles; But shining in the ice-gem, |