Patriot Heroes in the Sight of God.

(At the Montgomery White Sulphur Springs in Virginia, there was, during the war, a Confederate Hospital, and in the cemetery there, a number of our dead we buried. Recently the ladies of Montgomery County held a public celebration on the spot, and at their invitation the following beautiful poem, composed for, and commemorative of the occasion, was read by a gentleman of that county.)

As o'er the past, the widowed mother weeps,
And at the desolate hearthstone keeps

Her lonely vigils; when December's
Breath lights up the dying embers,

Who is it then, most dearly she remembers,
As back among the graves, through all her grief,
The spirit wanders, seeking some relief?

Is it the stout and buoyant hearted boy,
Who grasped Life's flashing blade with eager joy,
And onward pressed with right good will,
And on, and upward sped, until

He flung his banner out on some proud hill!
Does he come back in all his buried splendor,

To fill her heart with thoughts most dearly tender?

Or rather he-the feeble one-who burned
To mount as high, and for the struggle yearned,
But faint and weak, not all her care
Could keep that eager spirit there,

That mounted far beyond the reach of prayer!
Does he not rather come through all those years,
To loose the sacred fountain of her tears?

PATRIOT HERO IN THE SIGHT OF GOD.

'Tis thus Virginia, at her spoiled hearth Remembers these, with all her buried worth; Forbidden yet, by Power's lust,

To recognize their sacred dust,

Devoted daughters have assumed the trust, Until the grand old mother, freed of bonds, Shall come to write her love in stone or bronze.

Then here to-day, in view of all that band
Of Southern martyrs, in the Spirit land,
Those starry clusters we may see
Now circling o'er us, born to be

A shining system round the sun-like Lee;
We come to bow before these nameless ones,
Who died so well, tho' far from hostile guns.

Ah yes! 'tis these who would have died for Right,
As grandly as the foremost in the fight,

But fainted by the way. "Tis these
Who fought that other king, Disease,
We come to honor on our bended knees,
With pure, and loving women standing near
To bless each lowly one, with many a tear.

And while they weep among these lonely graves
We dare proclaim them loyal men-not slaves,—
Nor power, nor force, nor human laws
Can bind our people with a clause

That "traitors" make of martyrs in our cause.
For though they sleep beneath a nameless sod,
They're Patriot heroes in the sight of God!

585

In Memory of Heury Timrod,

THE POET LAUREATE OF SOUTH CAROLINA.

BY SALLIE A. BROCK.

"The good die first,

But they whose hearts are dry as summer dust
Burn to the socket."

His harp is mute!

And o'er the fair and sunlit skies,

Which saw his splendid genius comet-like arise
And wake of golden poesy, the fruit-

O'er every hill and dale,

On every mount and vale,

On rock and stream and wood,

On mart and bay and flood,

Is cast a black and sombre pall!

Unstrung, and by the wall

It stands!

The master hands

Which woke to life its chords divine,

Are cold and still! And mine

A tribute fain would pay.

To the unconscious clay;

The spirit, rather—

That the grim decay nor envious Death can gather,
But which must live while Time shall roll along
In pulsing echoes of undying song!

IN THE MEMORY OF HENRY TIMROD.

Yes, Timrod, while an amaranthine wreath I twine,
And many a precious blossom cull from thine,
That thou for heads of others in a chaplet wove,
While thy great heart and spirit strove

In fleshly bonds of brotherhood,

And in the dignity of manhood stood―

A lighthouse and a landmark on the shores of Time.
With fingers pointing to that heavenly clime,
Where sin nor death is known--

Not on thine own,

My garland would I fling—

Though woven of immortelles-gemmed with tears,
The diamond dew of sorrow, hopes and tears,
The precious drops that anguish bids to start,
All welling from the fountains of the heart-
Not on thy head for richest crowns so meet,
But humbly at thy feet

My offering I would lay,

And mournful sit and sing,
And wonder, weep and pray!

Weep! Yea, all must weep

Who knew thy virtues, ere the dreamless sleep
Of Death enchained thee! Weep, as for a star
Fled from the heavens to unknown regions, far!
The zephyr sighs, and moans the morning gale;
On every Southern breeze is heard a low, sad wail.
The tall palmetto bows its crested head

In solemn reverence o'er the gifted dead,
And all the leaves that in the forests wave
Will hold a weeping dew-drop for the poet's grave
Farewell awhile!

No more thy beaming smile

587

Shall light on those who loved thee here,
But there, up there in the Eternal sphere,
Thy harp will wake again

To joy's glad, thrilling strain,

To chords of glory which shall never cease,
In hallelujahs loud unto the "Prince of Peace."
The "CHRISTMAS" anthem which to earth was given,
Will lingering echo through the courts of heaven!
METROPOLITAN RECORD, New York, Oct. 13, 1867.

Ode.

BY HENRY TIMROD.

Sag at the Memorial Celebration in Charleston, South Carolina, May, 1866.

SLEEP Sweetly in your humble graves—
Sleep, martyrs in a fallen cause,
Though yet no marble column craves
The pilgrim here to pause.

In seeds of laurels in the earth,

The blossom of your fame is blown;
And, somewhere waiting for its birth
The shaft is in the stone.

Meanwhile, behold the tardy years,
Which keep in trust your sordid tomb
Behold your sisters bring their tears,
And these memorial blooms.