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Cool, calm, and clear the lucid flood

In which its tempering work was done;
As calm, as cool, as clear of mood

Be thou whene'er it sees the sun;
For country's claim, åt honor's call,

For outraged friend, insulted maid,
At mercy's voice to bid it fall,

I give iny soldier boy a blade.

The eye which marked its peerless edge,

The hand that weighed its balanced poise,
Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge,

Are gone with all their flame and noise;
And still the gleaming sword remains.

So when in dust I low am laid,
Remember by these heartfelt strains

I give my soldier boy a blade.



("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,
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,

Somebody's darling was borne one day.
Somebody's darling, so young and brave,

Wearing still on his pale, sweet face
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave

The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold

Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;
Pale are the lips of delicate inould,

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 India's distant wave,
For thee those pearly treasures drew?

Who, from yonder orient sky,

Stole the morning of thine eye?
Thousand charms, thy form to deck,

From sea, and earth, and air are torn;
Roses bloom upon thy cheek,
On thy breath their fragrance borne.

Guard thy bosom from the day,

Lest thy snows should melt away.
But one charm remains behind,

Which mute earth can ne'er impart;
Nor in ocean wilt thou find,
Nor in the circling air, a heart.

Fairest! wouldst thou perfect be,
Take, oh take that heart from me.


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;
Our steeds are madly neighing,

For the bugle bids us go.
So put the foot in stirrup,

And shake the bridle free,
For to-day the Texas Rangers

Must cross the Tennessee.

With Wliarton for our leader,

We'll chase the dastard foe,
Till our horses bathe their fetlocks

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,
For those we love at home,

Our altars and our land.

Up, up with the crimson battle-flag

Let the blue pennon fly;
Our steeds are stamping proudly-

They hear the battle-cry!
The thundering bomb, the bugle's call,

Proclaim the foe is near;
We strike for God and native land,

And all we hold most dear.
Then spring into the saddle,

And shake the bridle free,
For Wharton leads, through fire and blood,

For home and Victory!



[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,
Transcending in its martial pride

The nations of the world.
Though born of war, baptized in blood,

Yet mighty from the time,
Like fabled phoenix, forth she stood

Dismembered, yet sublime,

And braver heart, and bolder hand,

Ne'er formed a fabric fair
As Southern wisdom can command,

And Southern valor rear.
Though kingdoms scorn to own her sway,

Or recognize her birth,
The land blood-bought for Liberty

Will reign supreme on earth.

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