She has felt the force of many a blow-
She has struck on many a rock,
But she plunges on as the echoes do
After the thunder-shock.

The man at the helm is brave and strong, Captain and pilot, he

Sworn to guide our vessel along

Till she reaches the Port of the Free.

He gives no heed to crash and jar—
He fears not wave or wind—
His eyes are fixed on a beacon star
With never a look behind;

For better to sink in the surging sea,
On our trackless, perilous way,

Than die of a moral leprosy,

Moored to the hulk where we lay.

But we yet shall reach the Port of the Free,

Cries every man aboard,

Who has any hope in the days to be,

Or any faith in the Lord!

DROWNED, DROWNED.

165

Drowned, Drowned."

HAMLET.

BY MRS. CATHERINE A. WARFIELD, KENTUCKY.

IN the dark Confederate sea

Rest the heroes of our race;
O'er them waves are sweeping free,
And the pearls of ocean trace
Temples, where the helm should be,
Worn with high heroic grace.
"Twas a desperate strife at best,
And they perished-let them rest
In their silent burial place!-

When our divers, dreading nought,
Plunged to depths, through ocean whirls,
It was all their hope and thought,
To bear back those precious pearls,
Passion freighted, Beauty fraught,
Such as gleam 'mid glowing curls,
Or on baldrick and on banner,
In the old heroic manner,

Broidered all, by high-born girls.

But the divers came no more
From that dark Confederate sea,
With its ceaseless muffled roar,
And its billows sweeping free,

* Contributed specially to the "Southern Amaranth."

And the pearls were never gathered,
And the storms were never weathered.
Such was Destiny's decree!—

Quench the tear, and stay the sigh,
Nothing now can these avail;
They who nobly strive and die,
Over Fate itself prevail.

Give to those, who on the shore
Wait for sires who come no more,
Shelter from the surf and gale.

Spread the board and trim the hearth,
For the orphans of our race,
Lift from weariness and dearth,

Each young drooping form and face,

Light anew the olden fires

Won from high heroic sires,

And may God bestow his grace!

BEECHMORE, KENTUCKY, June 15th, 1867.

The Triple-barred Banner.

O TRIPLE-BARRED Banner! the badge of the Free, What coward would falter in duty to thee! On Southerners, onward, till glory be won,

And our eagles in pride greet the gleam of the sun.

* This song was composed in Louisville prison. It appeared in the first number of the Camp Chase paper, and led to something like a warning of suppression, from one of the prison authorities.

BITTER ALOES.

167

The daughters of Southland are kneeling in prayer,
That thy folds may e'er triumph in battle's fierce glare;
Then a welcome to sufferings, to prisons and scars,
And Freedom's dear smile to the Stars and the Bars.

All

O Triple-barred banner! the dread of the Foe, When thou art advancing his might is laid low, No stripes now degrade thee, no symbol of shame, pure are thy lustres, all peerless thy fame. not nor faint as the sad hours roll, They may shackle the body, they cannot the soul; Then welcome to troubles and battles and scars, And Freedom's bright crown to the Stars and the Bars.

We

weep

O, Triple-barred banner! our joy and our pride, Though scorned by invaders, by tyrants decried, Fling forth thy proud folds to the shore and the sea, For the heart of the Southland is beating for thee; And our brothers are arming with nerve and with will, To strike till the Northman is humbled and still; Then a welcome to prisons and wounding and scars, And Freedom's sweet smile to the Stars and the Bars.

Bitter Moes.

BY A. J. REQUIER, MOBILE, ALABAMA.

As a lute which vibrates to its keenest of chords
In tempestuous throes;

Or the fiery springs that empurple the rings

Of the dark summer rose,

Is the spell of a name, is the rush of a flame,
Swift sudden and brief,

When some Até exhumes all the showering blooms
Of a poisonous grief.

There are currents that flash through the spirit and

crash

Like the clouds on the air,

While the visor is closed and the frame looks composed

As an infant at prayer;-

Storms that came from a stir or a breath, or a sigh,
To drag out the Past,

Shapes of passion abjured, and of outrage endured
Where our fortunes are cast:

Blighted hopes budding white, in dim vales of delight,

From impossible seeds,

When we smote every clod with the plow of a god, But to gather up weeds!

Things we thought we had learned to forgive or forget,

As compassionate men,

Coming back with the tread of the corsleted dead
To confront us again.

That we feel, in our hearts, as vapidly vain
As the vacantest laughter;

And we know are supremely forbidden to be,
Either now or hereafter.