Rebel Rhymes and Other Poems

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G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1888 - United States - 78 pages
 

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Page 58 - San rson & Co. 202 A Year of Verse. Hung from abysmal arches high, The wondrous watchers of the sky, Nor feel the south wind soft and low, Where camp-fires once were wont to glow Upon the field of honor. Peace to the living and the dead, Peace for the bloody years now fled. A nation proud with armies grand, United, they about her stand,— Her bold defenders, who will die In brotherhood beneath the sky Upon her fields of honor. • And heart to heart and hand to hand, When outward foes assail the...
Page 1 - Where centuries with a ceaseless tide Sweep o'er the nations that have died, The nations that their course have run, There lies a mighty fallen one. In all her vestal robes pure white, She perished in a single night, — With prayers and tears and many a sigh, Her lovers saw her fall and die Upon the breast of Dixie.
Page 1 - While e'en the foe with bated breath, Looked down upon her glorious death. Alas ! Alas ! then let her rest, With laurel on her brow and breast, — Enshrined let all her glories lie Beneath the ever radiant sky That spans the land of Dixie. •"• '•.'• TheibloQd flowed, as the red, red wine Flows...
Page 2 - neath freedom's shrine ; They slumber on her tender breast, The truest, fondest, bravest, best, — The gallant sons of Dixie. Our dead, how dear, with eyes tear-wet, The living think upon them...
Page 20 - O softening shadows of the night, Fall lightly in the gloom ! For he who lies beneath the sod, Loved, with a proud devotion, His country well, — next to his God. His be the patriot's portion.
Page 3 - O'er marble couch, or grass-grown bed, That holds the dead of Dixie. No note of war, no dirge of death, But seemest to whisper o'er and o'er, Come quickly, O glad days of yore, To all the land of Dixie ! The bitter dregs are drained at last, The darkness dieth down the past. Thy trials all with...
Page 69 - And then we know some blessed day, When earthly visions pass away, Awaiting God's behest, No more o'erwhelmed by wave and wind, United with our dead we '11 find, The mount on which to rest.
Page 39 - Pass like the mists at dawn of day, And naught be left but what belongs To history, and to poet's songs.

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