|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 79
Throbbing along the frenzied vein,
My blood seemed kindled into song--
The death-dirge of the sacred slain,
The slogan of immortal wrong.
It glared athwart the dripping glaves,
It blazed in each avenging eye--
_The thought of desecrated graves,
And some lone sister's desperate cry!_
From the Rapidan--1864.
A low wind in the pines!
And a dull pain in the breast!
And oh! for the sigh of her lips and eyes--
One touch of the hand I pressed!
The slow, sad lowland wind,
It sighs through the livelong day,
While the splendid mountain breezes blow,
And the autumn is burning away.
Here the pines sigh ever above,
And the broomstraw sighs below;
And far from the bare, bleak, windy fields
Comes the note of the drowsy crow.
There the trees are crimson and gold,
Like the tints of a magical dawn,
And the slender form, in the dreamy days,
By the slow stream rambles on.
Oh, day that weighs on the heart!
Oh, wind in the dreary pines!
Does she think on me 'mid the golden hours,
Past the mountain's long blue lines?
The old house, lonely and still,
By the sad Shenandoah's waves,
Must be touched to-day by the sunshine's gleam,
As the spring flowers bloom on graves.
Oh, sunshine, flitting and sad,
Oh, wind, that forever sighs!
The hall may be bright, but my life is dark
For the sunshine of her eyes!
Song of Our Glorious Southland.
By Mrs. Mary Ware.
From the Southern Field and Fireside.
I.
Oh, sing of our glorious Southland,
The pride of the golden sun!
'Tis the fairest land of flowers
The eye e'er looked upon.
Sing of her orange and myrtle
That glitter like gems above;
Sing of her dark-eyed maidens
As fair as a dream of love.
Sing of her flowing rivers--
How musical their sound!
Sing of her dark green forests,
The Indian hunting-ground.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|