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Page 49
Then once more to the breach for the land of the West;
Strike home for your hearths--for the lips you love best;
Follow on where your leader you see;
One flash of his sword, when the foe is hard pressed,
And the land of the West shall be free!
[Footnote 1: General Johnston carries with him a beautiful blade, recently
presented to him, bearing the mark of the Royal Manufactory of Toledo,
1862.]
Over the River.
By Jane T. H. Cross.
Published in the Nashville Christian Advocate, 1861.
We hail your "stripes" and lessened "stars,"
As one may hail a neighbor;
Now forward move! no fear of jars,
With nothing but free labor;
And we will mind our slaves and farm,
And never wish you any harm,
But greet you--_over the river_.
The self-same language do we speak,
The same dear words we utter;
Then let's not make each other weak,
Nor 'gainst each other mutter;
But let each go his separate way,
And each will doff his hat, and say:
"I greet you--over the river!"
Our flags, almost the same, unfurl,
And nod across the border;
Ohio's waves between them curl--
_Our stripe's a little broader_;
May yours float out on every breeze,
And, _in our wake_, traverse all seas--
We greet you--over the river!
We part, as friends of years should part,
With pleasant words and wishes,
And no desire is in our heart
For Lincoln's loaves and fishes;
"Farewell," we wave you from afar,
We like you best--just where you are--
And greet you--over the river!
The Confederacy.
By Jane T. H. Cross.
Published in the Southern Christian Advocated.
Born in a day, full-grown, our Nation stood,
The pearly light of heaven was on her face;
Life's early joy was coursing in her blood;
A thing she was of beauty and of grace.
She stood, a stranger on the great broad earth,
No voice of sympathy was heard to greet
The glory-beaming morning of her birth,
Or hail the coming of the unsoiled feet.
She stood, derided by her passing foes;
Her heart beat calmly 'neath their look of scorn;
Their rage in blackening billows round her rose--
Her brow, meanwhile, as radiant as the morn.
Their poisonous coils about her limbs are cast,
She shakes them off in pure and holy ire,
As quietly as Paul, in ages past,
Shook off the serpent in the crackling fire.
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