VI.

Huzza! huzza! for the Good Old Cause, 'Tis a stirring sound to hear; For it tells of rights and liberties, Our fathers bought so dear; It summons our braves from their bloody graves. To receive our fond applause, And bids us tread in the steps of those Who _died_ for the _Good Old Cause_.

Manassas.

By Catherine M. Warfield.

They have met at last--as storm-clouds meet in heaven; And the Northmen, back and bleeding, have been driven: And their thunders have been stilled, And their leaders crushed or killed, And their ranks, with terror thrilled, rent and riven!

Like the leaves of Vallambrosa they are lying; In the moonlight, in the midnight, dead and dying: Like those leaves before the gale, Swept their legions, wild and pale; While the host that made them quail stood, defying.

When aloft in morning sunlight flags were flaunted, And "swift vengeance on the rebel" proudly vaunted: Little did they think that night Should close upon their shameful flight, And rebels, victors in the fight, stand undaunted.

But peace to those who perished in our passes! Light be the earth above them! green the grasses! Long shall Northmen rue the day, When they met our stern array, And shrunk from battle's wild affray at Manassas!

Virginia.

By Catherine M. Warfield.

Glorious Virginia! Freedom sprang Light to her feet at thy trumpet's clang: At the first sound of that clarion blast, Foes like the chaff from the whirlwind passed-- Passed to their doom: from that hour no more Triumphs their cause by sea or shore.

Glorious Virginia! noble the blood That hath bathed thy fields in a crimson flood; On many a wide-spread and sunny plain, Like leaves of autumn thy dead have lain: The Southron heart is their funeral urn! The Southern slogan their requiem stern!

Glorious Virginia! to thee, to thee We lean, as the shoots to the parent tree; Bending in awe at thy glance of might;-- First in the council, first in the fight! While our flag is fanned by the breath of fame, Glorious Virginia! we'll bless thy name.

The War-Christian's Thanksgiving.

Respectfully dedicated to the War-Clergy of the United States.

By S. Teackle Wallis.

Oh, God of battles! once again, With banner, trump, and drum, And garments in thy wine-press dyed, To give Thee thanks we come.

No goats or bullocks garlanded, Unto thine altars go; With brothers' blood, by brothers shed, Our glad libations flow,

From pest-house and from dungeon foul, Where, maimed and torn, they die, From gory trench and charnel-house, Where, heap on heap, they lie.

In every groan that yields a soul, Each shriek a heart that rends, With every breath of tainted air, Our homage, Lord, ascends.

We thank Thee for the sabre's gash, The cannon's havoc wild; We bless Thee for the widow's tears, The want that starves her child!

We give Thee praise that Thou hast lit The torch, and fanned the flame; That lust and rapine hunt their prey, Kind Father, in Thy name!

That, for the songs of idle joy False angels sang of yore, Thou sendest War on earth--ill-will To men for evermore!

We know that wisdom, truth, and right To us and ours are given; That Thou hast clothed us with the wrath, To do the work of heaven.

We know that plains and cities waste Are pleasant in Thine eyes-- Thou lov'st a hearthstone desolate, Thou lov'st a mourner's cries.

Let not our weakness fall below The measure of Thy will, And while the press hath wine to bleed, Oh, tread it with us still!

Teach us to hate--as Jesus taught Fond fools, of yore, to love; Give us Thy vengeance as our own-- Thy pity, hide above!

Teach us to turn, with reeking hands, The pages of Thy word, And learn the blessed curses there, On them that sheathe the sword.

Where'er we tread may deserts spring, 'Till none are left to slay; And when the last red drop is shed, We'll kneel again--and pray!

Sonnet.

Charleston Mercury.

Man makes his own dread fates, and these in turn Create his tyrants. In our lust and passion, Our appetite and ignorance, he springs. The creature of our need as our desert, The scourge that whips us for decaying virtue, He chastens to reform us! Never yet, In mortal life, did tyrant rise to power, But in the people's worst infirmities Of crime and greed. The creature of our vices, The loathsome ulcer of our vicious moods, He is decreed their proper punishment.

Marching to Death.

By J. Herbert Sass, of South Carolina.

1862.

"The National Quarterly depicts a remarkable scene, which occurred some years since on one of the British transport ships. The commander of the troops on board, seeing that the vessel must soon sink, and that there was no hope of saving his men, drew them up in order of battle, and, as in the presence of a human enemy, bravely faced the doom that was before them. We know of no more impressive illustration of the power of military discipline in the presence of death."

The last farewells are breathed by loving lips, The last fond prayer for darling ones is said, And o'er each heart stern sorrow's dark eclipse Her sable pall hath spread.

Far, far beyond each anxious watcher's sight, Baring her bosom to the wanton sea, The lordly ship sweeps onward in her might, Her tameless majesty.

Forth from his fortress in the western sky, Flashing defiance on each crested wave, Out glares the sun, with red and lowering eye, Grand, even in his grave.

Till, waxing bolder as his rays decline, The clustering billows o'er his ramparts sweep, Slow droops his banner--fades his light divine, And darkness rules the deep.

Look once again!--Night's sombre shades have fled: But the pale rays that glimmer from their sheath, Serve but to show the blackness overhead, And the wild void beneath.

Mastless and helmless drifts the helpless bark; Her pride, her majesty, her glory gone; While o'er the waters broods the tempest dark, And the wild winds howl on.

But hark! amid the madness of the storm There comes an echo o'er the surging wave; Firm at its call the dauntless legions form, The resolute and brave.

Eight hundred men, the pride of England's host, In stern array stand marshall'd on her deck, Calmly as though they knew not they were lost-- Lost in that shattered wreck.

Eight hundred men,--old England's tried and true, Their hopes, their fears, their tasks of glory done, Steadfast, till the last foe be conquered too, And the last fight be won.

Free floats their banner o'er them as they stand; No mournful dirge may o'er the waters ring; Out peals the anthem, glorious and grand, "The king! God save the king!"

Lower and lower sinks the fated bark, Closer and closer creeps the ruthless wave, But loud outswells, across the waters dark, The death-song of the brave.

Over their heads the gurgling billows sweep; Still o'er the waves the last fond echoes ring, Out-thrilling from the caverns of the deep, "The king! God save the king!"

Oh thou! whoe'er thou art that reads this page, Learn here a lesson of high, holy faith, For all throughout our earthly pilgrimage, We hold a tryst with death.

Not in the battle-field's tumultuous strife, Not in the hour when vanquished foemen fly, Not in the midst of bright and happy life, Is it most hard to die.