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Page 55
IX.
They are on it! they are o'er it! who can stay that living flood?
Lo, ever swelling, rolleth on the weltering tide of blood.
Yet another and another is full boldly stormed and won,
And forward to the spoiler's camp the column presseth on.
Hurrah! hurrah! the field is won! we'e met them man to man,
And ever still the Stars and Bars are riding in the van.
X.
They are flying! they are flying! and close upon their track
Comes our glorious "Stonewall" Jackson, with ten thousand at his back;
And Longstreet, too, and gallant Hill, and Rhodes, and brave Huger,[1]
And he whose name is worth a host, our bold, devoted Lee;
And back to where the lordly James his scornful billow rolls,
The recreant foe is fleeing fast--those men of dastard souls.
XI.
They are flying! they are flying! horse and foot, and bold dragoon,
In one refluent mass are mingled, 'neath the slowly waning moon;
And louder still the cry is heard, as borne upon the blast,
The shouts of the pursuing host are rising full and fast:
"On, on unto the river, 'tis our only chance for life!
We needs must reach the gunboats, or we perish in the strife!"
XII.
'Tis done! the gory field is ours; we've conquered in the fight!
And yet once more our tongues can tell the triumph of the right;
And humbled is the haughty foe, who our destruction sought,
For God's right hand and holy arm have great deliverance wrought.
Oh, then, unto His holy name ring out the joyful song--
The race has not been to the swift, the battle to the strong.
[1] Pronounced _Eujee_
The Guerillas: A Southern War-Song.
By S. Teackle Wallis, of Maryland.
"Awake! and to horse, my brothers!
For the dawn is glimmering gray;
And hark! in the crackling brushwood
There are feet that tread this way.
"Who cometh?" "A friend." "What tidings?"
"O God! I sicken to tell,
For the earth seems earth no longer,
And its sights are sights of hell!
"There's rapine and fire and slaughter,
From the mountain down to the shore;
There's blood on the trampled harvest--
There's blood on the homestead floor.
"From the far-off conquered cities
Comes the voice of a stifled wail;
And the shrieks and moans of the houseless
Ring out, like a dirge, on the gale.
"I've seen, from the smoking village
Our mothers and daughters fly;
I've seen where the little children
Sank down, in the furrows, to die.
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