And Virginia, when she's weeping
O'er the sons that now are sleeping
On her bosom, shall forget not

That he died to set her free;

And graven on her sacred tablets
Shall his name forever be.

Lines on the Death of Col. B. f. Terry.*

BY J. R. BARRICK, KENTUCKY.

THERE is a wail

As if the voice of sadness long and deep,
Had given its low tones to the Southern gale,
Sweeping o'er vale and steep,
There is a voice

As if of mingled mourning in the land,
And Nature, stricken, ceases to rejoice,
As if at grief's command.

There is a grief

As if of hearts that were unused to mourn,
And sighs and sorrow fail to bring relief
To those that thus bemoan.

There is a tear.

As if of eyes that were unused to tears—
A link of friendship broken that was dear--
A shadow on past years.

*The gallant commander of "The Texas Rangers," who fell at the battle of Green River, in defence of the rights and liberties of Kentucky, his native State, and his adopted South.

There is a pall

As if of darkness o'er our sun-land spread,
A weight of weariness and grief on all—
Who mourn the heroic dead.

The south winds moan,

The south winds murmur in a plaintive strain, The south winds warble in a saddened tone, And the land groans with pain.

The Lone Star shines

Less brilliant in her glow of southern skies
Since he, the idol of her cherished shrines,
In death's cold slumber lies.

Back to the State

That gave him birth his spirit bade him come
To share the peril of her pending fate,
Far from his chosen home.

There, where his life

First coursed the channel of its future fame,
He fell, the foremost in the deadly strife,
With glory to his name.

Tho' dead to earth,

While man may boast that he is not a slave
Of tyranny, his valor and his worth

The tide of time will brave.

Dear unto those

To whom his voice in battle gave command,

Who, now, amid the terror of his foes,

Shall head that gallant band?

Dear to the State

Of his adoption, to the people dear— Whose cause he proudly strove to illustrate, Who now shall fill his sphere?

GLASGOW, KY., Dec. 18th, 1861.

Ashby.

BY JOHN R. THOMPSON.

To the brave all homage render!
Weep ye skies of June!
With a radiance pure and tender,
Shine, oh, saddened moon!

"Dead upon the field of glory!"
Hero fit for song and story-
Lies our bold dragoon!

Well they learned whose hands have slain him, Braver, knightlier foe

Never fought with Moor nor Paynim—

Rode at Templestowe :

With a mien how high and joyous,

Gainst the hordes that would destroy us,
Went he forth we know.

Nevermore, alas! shall sabre

Gleam around his crest-
Fought his fight, fulfilled his labor,
Stilled his manly breast-

All unheard sweet nature's cadence,
Trump of fame and song of maidens,
Now he takes his rest.

Earth that all too soon has bound him,

Gently wrap his clay!

Linger lovingly around him,

Light of dying day!

Softly fall the summer showers,
Birds and bees among the flowers,
Make the gloom seem gay!

There, throughout the coming ages,
When his sword is rust,
And his deeds in classic pages,

Mindful of her trust

Shall Virginia bending lowly,
Still a ceaseless vigil holy
Keep above his dust!

Dirge for Ashby.

MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON, VIRGINIA.

HEARD ye that thrilling tone?
Accent of dread!

Fall like a thunderbolt

Bowing each head?

Over the battle dun

Over each booming gun

Ashby our bravest one,

Ashby is dead!

Saw ye the veterans?

Hearts that had known

Never a quail or fear,

Never a groan

Sob 'mid the fight they win,
Tears their stern eyes within,
Ashby our Paladin,

Ashby is dead!

Dash, dash the tear away!
Crush down the pain!

Dulce et decus be,

Fittest refrain.

Why should the dreary pall
Round him be flung at all?
Did not our hero fall,

Gallantly slain?

Catch the last words of cheer

Dropped from his tongue!

Over the volley's din

Let them be rung!

Follow me! Follow me!

Soldier, oh! could there be

Pæan or dirge for thee
Loftier sung?

Bold as the Lion's Heart-
Dauntless and brave,

Knightly as knightliest

Sweet, with all Sidney's grace

Tender as Hampden's face,

Who, who shall fill the space

Void by his grave?

"Tis not one broken heart,

Wild with dismay—

Crazed in her agony

Weeps o'er his clay!

Ah! from a thousand eyes