War poetry of the South

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William Gilmore Simms
Richardson & Company, 1867 - American literature - 482 pages
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Page 374 - Was it a mother's, soft and white ? And have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in their 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.
Page 321 - To the mean channels of no selfish mart, Goes out to every shore Of this broad earth, and throngs the sea with ships That bear no thunders; hushes hungry lips In alien lands; Joins with a delicate web remotest strands; And gladdening rich and poor, Doth gild Parisian domes, Or feed the cottage-smoke of English homes, And only bounds its blessings by mankind!
Page 67 - I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland! For thou wast ever bravely meek, Maryland ! But lo! there surges forth a shriek, From hill to hill, from creek to creek, Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland, my Maryland! Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, Maryland! Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland! Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland, my Maryland! I hear the distant thunder hum, Maryland! The Old Line's...
Page 336 - ... bind, The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, The brown of Autumn corn. As yet the turf is dark, although you know That, not a span below, A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, And soon will burst their tomb.
Page 83 - Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands, And Summer to her courts. But still, along yon dim Atlantic line, The only hostile smoke Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine, From some frail, floating oak. Shall the Spring dawn, and she still clad in smiles, And with an unscathed brow, Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles, As fair and free as now ? We know not ; in the temple of the Fates God has inscribed her doom ; And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits The triumph or the tomb.
Page 233 - midst the lightning of the stormy fight, Not in the rush, upon the Vandal foe, Did kingly Death, with his resistless might, Lay the Great Leader low. His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke In the full sunshine of a peaceful town ; When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak That propped our cause went down. Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, Recording all his grand, heroic deeds, Freedom, herself is writhing with the wound, And all the country bleeds.
Page 374 - Darling, so young and so brave, Wearing yet 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 mould — Somebody's Darling is dying now. Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow Brush all the wandering waves of gold, Cross his hands on his bosom now, Somebody's Darling is still and cold.
Page 240 - The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath His bleeding country weeps ; Hushed in the alabaster arms of death, Our young Marcellus sleeps. Nobler and grander than the Child of Rome, Curbing his chariot steeds, The knightly scion of a Southern home Dazzled the land with deeds.
Page 134 - Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, For their mother; may Heaven defend her!
Page 11 - Not only for the glories which the years Shall bring us; not for lands from sea to sea, And wealth, and power, and peace, though these shall be; But for the distant peoples we shall bless, And the hushed murmurs of a world's distress...

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