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Page 68
"Tell the boys the war is ended,"
And his warfare then was o'er,
As, by angel bands attended,
He departed from earth's shore.
Bursting shells and cannons roaring
Could not rouse him by their din;
He to better worlds was soaring,
Far from war, and pain, and sin.
"The Southern Cross."
By St. George Tucker, of Virginia.
Oh! say can you see, through the gloom and the storm,
More bright for the darkness, that pure constellation?
Like the symbol of love and redemption its form,
As it points to the haven of hope for the nation.
How radiant each star, as the beacon afar,
Giving promise of peace, or assurance in war!
'Tis the Cross of the South, which shall ever remain
To light us to freedom and glory again!
How peaceful and blest was America's soil,
'Till betrayed by the guile of the Puritan demon,
Which lurks under virtue, and springs from its coil
To fasten its fangs in the life-blood of freemen.
Then boldly appeal to each heart that can feel,
And crush the foul viper 'neath Liberty's heel!
And the Cross of the South shall in triumph remain,
To light us to freedom and glory again!
'Tis the emblem of peace,'tis the day-star of hope,
Like the sacred _Labarum_ that guided the Roman;
From the shores of the Gulf to the Delaware's slope,
'Tis the trust of the free and the terror of foemen.
Fling its folds to the air, while we boldly declare
The rights we demand or the deeds that we dare!
While the Cross of the South shall in triumph remain,
To light us to freedom and glory again!
And if peace should be hopeless and justice denied,
And war's bloody vulture should flap its black pinions,
Then gladly "to arms," while we hurl, in our pride,
Defiance to tyrants and death to their minions!
With our front in the field, swearing never to yield,
Or return, like the Spartan, in death on our shield!
And the Cross of the South shall triumphantly wave,
As the flag of the free or the pall of the brave!
Southern Literary Messenger.
England's Neutrality.
A Parliamentary Debate.
By John R. Thompson, of Richmond, Virginia.
All ye who with credulity the whispers hear of fancy,
Or yet pursue with eagerness hope's wild extravagancy,
Who dream that England soon will drop her long miscalled neutrality,
And give us, with a hearty shake, the hand of nationality,
Read, as we give, with little fault of statement or omission,
The _next_ debate in parliament on Southern Recognition;
They're all so much alike, indeed, that one can write it off, I see,
As truly as the _Times_' report, without the gift of prophecy.
Not yet, not yet to interfere does England see occasion,
But treats our good commissioner with coolness and evasion;
Such coolness in the premises, that really 'tis refrigerant
To think that two long years ago she called us a belligerent.
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