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Earth, that all too soon hath bound him,

Gently wrap his clay!
Linger lovingly around him,

Light of dying day!
Softly fall, ye summer showers ;
Birds and bees, among the flowers

Make the gloom seem gay.

Then, throughout the coming ages,

When his sword is rust,
And his deeds in classic pages-

Mindful of her trust-
Shall Virginia, bending lowly,
Still a ceaseless vigil holy
Keep above his dust!

JOHN R. THOMPSON.

STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY. [These verses, says Mr. William Gilmore Simms, were found, stained with blood, in the breast of a dead soldier of the old Stonewall Brigade, after one of Jackson's battles in the Shenandoah Valley." Though widely copied and justly admired, their authorship long remained a well-kept secret'; but the compiler of the present volume has been so fortu. nate as to discover that they were unquestionably written by Dr. 7. W. Palmer, of Maryland.]

COME, stack arms, men ! Pile on the rails,

Stir up the camp-fire bright;
No growling if the canteen fails,

We'll make a roaring night.
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
To swell the Brigade's rousing song

Of “Stonewall Jackson's way.”

We see him now—the queer slouched hat

Cocked o'er his eye askew ;
The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,

So calm, so blunt, so true.
The “ Blue-Light Elder" knows 'em well;
Says he, “ That's Banks—he's fond of shell
Lord save his soul! we'll give him—”; well!

That's “Stonewall Jackson's way." Silence! ground arms ! kneel all ! caps off !

Old Massa's goin' to pray. Strangle the fool that dares to scoff !

Attention! it's his way. Appealing from his native sod,

In forma pauperis to God: · Lay bare Thine arm; stretch forth Thy rod !

Amen!” That's “Stonewall's way.' He's in the saddle now. Fall in !

Steady! the whole brigade !
Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win

His way out, ball and blade!
What matter if our shoes are worn ?
What matter if our feet are torn ?
'Quick step! we're with him before morn!"

That's “Stonewall Jackson's way.'
The sun's bright lances rout the mists

Of morning, and, by George !
Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists,

Hemmed in an ugly gorge.
Pope and his Dutchmen, whipped before ;
Bay’nets and grape !” hear Stonewall roar;
Charge, Stuart ! Pay off Ashby's score !"

In “Stonewall Jackson's way.”
Ah ! Maiden, wait and watch and yearn

For news of Stonewall's band !
Ah! Widow, read, with eyes that burn,

That ring upon thy hand.

Ah! Wife, sew on, pray on, hope on;
Thy life shall not be all forlorn ;
The foe had better ne'er been born
That gets in “Stonewall's way.”

J. W. PALMER.

THE BAREFOOTED BOYS.

1.

By the sword of St. Michael

The old dragon through;
By David his sling

And the giant he slew ;
Let us write us a rhyme,

As a record to tell
How the South on a time
Stormed the ramparts of Hell

With her barefooted boys !

II.
Had the South in her border

A hero to spare,
Or a heart at her altar,

Lo! its life's blood was there !
And the black battle-grime

Might never disguise
The smile of the South
On the lips and the eyes

Of her barefooted boys !

III.
There's a grandeur in fight,

And a terror the while,
But none like the light

Of that terrible smile

The smile of the South,
When the storm-cloud unrolls
The lightning that loosens
The wrath in the souls

Of her barefooted boys!

IV.

It withered the foe
Like the red light that runs
Through the dead forest leaves,
And he fled from his guns !
Grew the smile to a laugh,
Rose the laugh to a yell,
As the iron-clad hoofs
Clattered back into Hell
From our barefooted boys !

ANONYMOUS.

REVEILLE. (Written by a sergeant in the 140th Regiment of New York Volunteers, who died at Potomac Station, Va., December 28, 1862, aged twenty-five years. An eminent

authority says of this poem, that it contains almost the finest lyric line in the language."] The morning is cheery, my boys, arouse ! The dew shines bright on the chestnut boughs, And the sleepy mist on the river lies, Though the east is flushing with crimson dyes.

Awake! awake! awake!
O'er field and wood and brake,
With glories newly born,
Comes on the blushing morn.

Awake! awake!
You have dreamed of your homes and friends all

night ; You have basked in your sweethearts' smiles so

bright;

Come, part with them all for a while again,-
Be lovers in dreams; when awake, be men.

Turn out ! turn out ! turn out !

You have dreamed full long, I know.
Turn out ! turn out ! turn out!
The east is all aglow.

Turn out! turn out !
From every valley and hill there come
The clamoring voices of fife and drum;
And out in the fresh, cool morning air
The soldiers are swarming everywhere.

Fall in! fall in! fall in !

Every man in his place.
Fall in! fall in ! fall in!
Each with a cheerful face.
Fall in! fall in!

MICHAEL O'CONNOR.

SPRING IN WAR-TIME
SPRING, with that nameless pathos in the air
Which dwells with all things fair,
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,
Is with us once again.
Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court with green festoons
The banks of dark lagoons.
In the deep heart of every forest tree
The blood is all aglee,
And there's a look about the leafless bowers
As if they dreamed of flowers.
Yet still on every side appears the hand
Of Winter in the land,

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