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Page 168
The Knell Shall Sound Once More.
I know that the knell shall sound once more,
And the dirge be sung o'er a bloody grave;
And there shall be storm on the beaten shore,
And there shall be strife on the stormy wave;
And we shall wail, with a mighty wail,
And feel the keen sorrow through many years,
But shall not our banner at last prevail,
And our eyes be dried of tears?
There's a bitter pledge for each fruitful tree,
And the nation whose course is long to run,
Must make, though in anguish still it be,
The tribute of many a noble son;
The roots of each mighty shaft must grow
In the blood-red fountains of mighty hearts;
And to conquer the right from a bloody foe,
Brings a pang as when soul and body parts!
But the blood and the pang are the need, alas!
To strengthen the sovereign will that svrays
The generations that rise, and pass
To the full fruition that crowns their days!
'Tis still in the strife, they must grow to life:
And sorrow shall strengthen the soul for care;
And the freedom sought must ever be bought
By the best blood-offerings, held most dear.
Heroes, the noblest, shall still be first
To mount the red altar of sacrifice;
Homes the most sacred shall fare the worst,
Ere we conquer and win the precious prize!--
The struggle may last for a thousand years,
And only with blood shall the field be bought;
But the sons shall inherit, through blood and tears,
The birth-right for 'which their old fathers fought.
Charleston Mercury.
Gendron Palmer, of the Holcombe Legion
By Ina M. Porter, of Alabama.
He sleeps upon Virginia's strand,
While comrades of the Legion stand
With arms reversed--a mournful band--
Around his early bier!
His war-horse paws the shaking ground,
The volleys ring--they close around--
And on the white brow, laurel-bound,
Falls many a soldier's tear.
Up, stricken mourners! look on high,
Loud anthems rend the echoing sky,
Re-born where heroes never die--
The warrior is at rest!
Gone is the weary, pain-traced frown;
Life's march is o'er, his arms cast down,
His plumes replaced by shining--crown,
The red cross on his breast!
Though Gendron's arm is with the dust,
Let not his blood-stained weapon rust,
Bequeathed to one who'll bear the trust,
Where Southern banners fly!
Some brave, who followed where he led--
Aye, swear him o'er the martyred dead,
To avenge each drop of blood he shed,
Or, like him, bravely die!
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