A cloud of sabres 'mid Virginian snow,
The fiery rush of shells-

And there's a wail of immemorial woe
In Alabama dells.

The pennon droops that led the sabred band
Along the crimson field;

The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand,
Over the spotless shield.

We gazed, and gazed upon that beauteous face, While round the lips and eyes,

Couched in the marble slumber, flashed the grace Of a divine surprise.

O Mother of a blessed soul on high!

Thy tears may soon be shed

Think of thy boy with princes of the sky,
Among the Southern dead.

How must he smile on this dull world beneath,
Fevered with swift renown—

He--with the martyr's amaranthine wreath,
Twining the victor's crown.

March 17th, 1863.

The Band in the Lines.

HEARD AFTER PELHAM DIED.

BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE.

Он, band in the pine-wood cease!
Cease with your splendid call;
The living are brave and noble,

But the dead are bravest of all!

They throng to the martial summons,
To the loud triumphant strain,

And the dear bright eyes of long dead friends,
Come to the heart again!

They come with the ringing bugle,
And the deep drums' mellow roar;`

Till the soul is faint with longing
For the hands we clasp no more!

Oh, band in the pine-wood cease!
Or the heart will melt with tears,
For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips;
And the voices of old years.

SOUTHERN ILLUSTRATED NEWS.

The Unreturning.

THE Swallow leaves the ancient eaves
As in the days agone,

The wheaten fields are all ablaze,

And in and out the west wind plays,
Amid the tasseled corn.

The sun's rays light as warm and bright
On clover fields all red;

The wild bird wakes his simple song
As joyfully, the whole day long,

As if he were not dead.

The summer skies with softest sighs,
Their rain and sunshine send,

And standing in the farm-house door,

I see dotting the landscape o'er—

The flocks he used to tend.

The woodbine grows-the jasmin blows-
Beside the window-sill;

Their soft sweet sigh is in the air,

For the dear hands that placed them there,
On the red field are still.

Around the wolds the summer folds

Her wreath of golden light,

And, past the willow's silvery gleam,
I catch the glimmering of the stream,
And lilies, cool and white.

But oh! one shade has solemn made

The sunshine and the bloom,
His voice, whose sweet and gentle words,
Were sweeter than the song of birds,
Is silent in the tomb.

How can the day so bright and gay

Glare round the farm-house door?

When all the quiet ways he trod

By leafy wood or blooming sod,

Shall know him never more!

Stuart.*

BY W. WINSTON FONTAINE, VIRGINIA.

MOURN, mourn along thy mountains high!
Mourn, mourn along thine ocean wave!
Virginia mourn! thy bravest brave

Has struck for thee his last good blow!
O, south wind breathe thy softest sigh,

young moon, shed thy gentlest light-.
Ye silver dews come weep to-night,
To honor Stuart-lying low!

The princeliest scion of a royal race,ț
The knightliest of his knightly name,
The imperial brow encrowned by fame,
Lies pallid on his mother's breast!
How sadly tender is her face,
Virginia dearly loved this son,
And now his glorious race is run!

Tearful she bows her martial crest.

She bows her head in the midst of war,
With booming cannon rumbling round,
Mid crash of musket and the sound

Of drum and trumpet clanging wilá.

* Died of a wound received at Yellow Tavern, near Richmond, Virginia, May 11th, 1864.

† General J. E. B. Stuart, sprang from the Royal House of Scotland.

Fierce cries of fight rise near and far;
But "dulce et decorum est,"

For him who nobly falls to rest,——

Virginia mourns her peerless child!

The fair young wife bewails her lord,
The blooming maidens weep for him,
Fierce trooper's eyes with tears grow dim,

And all, all mourn the chieftain dead!

Place by his side his trusty sword,
Now cross his hands upon his breast!
And let the glorious warrior rest,
Enshrouded in his banner red.

No more our courtly cavalier
Shall lead his squadrons to the fight!
No more! no more! his sabre bright

Shall dazzling flash in foeman's eyes;
No more! no more! his ringing cheer
Shall fright the Northman in his tent,
Nor swift as eagle in descent,

Shall he the boastful foe surprise.

But when his legions meet the foe
With gleaming sabre lifted high,
His name shall be their battle cry,

. His name shall steel them in the fray!
And many a Northman 'neath the blow
Of Southern brand shall strew the ground,
While on the breeze the slogan sound—

Stuart! Stuart! shall ring dismay.