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Page 72
And bravely doth her sister-ship begin her young career.
Already hath her gentle name become a name of fear;
The name that breathes of the orange-bloom, of soft lagoons that roll
Round the home of the Roman of the West--the unconquered Seminole.
Like the albatross and the tropic-bird, forever on the wing,
For them nor night nor breaking morn may peace nor shelter bring.
All drooping from the weary cruise or shattered from the fight,
No dear home-haven opes to them its arms with welcome bright.
Then side by side, in our love and pride, be our men of the land and sea;
The fewer these, the sterner task, the greater their guerdon be!
The fairest wreaths of amaranth the fairest hands shall twine
For the brows of our preux chevaliers, the Bayards of the brine!
The "stars and bars" of our sturdy tars as gallantly shall wave
As long shall live in the storied page, or the spirit-stirring stave,
As hath the red cross of St. George or the raven-flag of Thor,
Or flag of the sea, whate'er it be, that ever unfurled to war.
Then flout full high to their parent sky those circled stars of ours,
Where'er the dark-hulled foeman floats, where'er his emblem towers!
Speak for the right, for the truth and light, from the gun's unmuzzled
mouth,
And the fame of the Dane revive again, ye Vikings of the SOUTH!
Richmond Sentinel, March 30, 1863.
The Return.
Three years! I wonder if she'll know me?
I limp a little, and I left one arm
At Petersburg; and I am grown as brown
As the plump chestnuts on my little farm:
And I'm as shaggy as the chestnut burrs--
But ripe and sweet within, and wholly hers.
The darling! how I long to see her!
My heart outruns this feeble soldier pace,
For I remember, after I had left,
A little Charlie came to take my place.
Ah! how the laughing, three-year old, brown eyes--
His mother's eyes--will stare with pleased surprise!
Surely, they will be at the corner watching!
I sent them word that I should come to-night:
The birds all know it, for they crowd around,
Twittering their welcome with a wild delight;
And that old robin, with a halting wing--
I saved her life, three years ago last spring.
Three years! perhaps I am but dreaming!
For, like the pilgrim of the long ago,
I've tugged, a weary burden at my back,
Through summer's heat and winter's blinding snow;
Till now, I reach my home, my darling's breast,
There I can roll my burden off, and rest.
* * * * *
When morning came, the early rising sun
Laid his light fingers on a soldier sleeping--
Where a soft covering of bright green grass
Over two mounds was lightly creeping;
But waked him not: his was the rest eternal,
Where the brown eyes reflected love supernal.
Our Christmas Hymn.
By John Dickson Bruns, M.D., of Charleston, S.C.
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