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        <title>SOUTHERN POEMS:    
Electronic Edition.</title>
        <editor role="editor">ed. by Kent, Charles William,
1860-1917</editor>
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        <pubPlace>University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, </pubPlace>
        <date>1997.</date>
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        <note anchored="yes">Call number PS551 .K4   (Davis Library, 
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        <bibl><title>Southern Poems</title><title>Selected, Arranged and Edited With Bibliographical Notes</title>
<editor role="editor">Charles W. Kent</editor><imprint><pubPlace>Boston, New York, Chicago</pubPlace><publisher>Houghton Mifflin Company</publisher><publisher>The University Press Cambridge</publisher><date>1913</date></imprint></bibl>
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    <front>
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      <titlePage>
        <docTitle>
          <titlePart type="main">
            <emph rend="bold">SOUTHERN POEMS</emph>
          </titlePart>
          <titlePart type="main">SELECTED, ARRANGED AND EDITED
WITH BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES </titlePart>
        </docTitle>
        <byline>BY</byline>
        <docAuthor><name>CHARLES W. KENT</name>
 PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE
UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA</docAuthor>
        <docImprint><pubPlace>BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO</pubPlace>
<publisher>HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY</publisher>
<publisher>The Riverside Press Cambridge</publisher>
</docImprint>
        <titlePart type="verso">COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
<lb/>ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</titlePart>
      </titlePage>
      <pb id="kentiii" n="iii"/>
      <div1 type="preface">
        <head>PREFACE</head>
        <p>THESE poems are selected from the wide range of
Southern poetry, that the South's contribution to our
national literature may be in part apprehended. For
a long time the productions of Southern writers were
so inaccessible that authors of text-books on American
Literature were disposed to neglect them altogether;
and even later the admission of any Southern author,
save one or two of international fame, was somewhat
grudging and apologetic. In recent years, especially
since the publication of the <hi rend="italics">Library of Southern
Literature</hi>, by which a new perspective for American
literature was afforded, fuller treatment has been
accorded these Southern authors; but very few
students  <ref id="ref1" n="1" rend="sc" target="note1" targOrder="U">1</ref> of American literature have yet comprehended
clearly and fully that, for some periods of our literary
history and in some significant; and far-reaching
movements, literature in the South has been the dominant
and controlling factor.</p>
        <p>These selections, however, have not been made to
establish any cause or exemplify any theory, but partly
to illustrate chronological development, and mainly to
portray Southern life and sentiment in poems of
individual literary merit. In giving preference to such
poems as reveal characteristics of Southern climate,
conditions, and life, the danger has not been escaped of
presenting an occasional sentiment heated by the
<note id="note1" n="1" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref1">1. A notable exception is Dr. C. Alphonso Smith, in his
<hi rend="italics"><foreign lang="ger">Amerikanische Literatur</foreign></hi>, published by Weidmannische Buchhandlung,
Berlin, Germany.</note>
<pb id="kentiv" n="iv"/>
passions of war or heightened by the presence of a
dramatic crisis. It would be strange indeed if at that time
no such sentiment were cherished or uttered: it would
be even stranger to-day if we could not read these
sentiments with the sympathy that belongs to their
circumstances or the intellectual detachment that
belongs to ours. As a nation we can recognize the
literary merit of the <hi rend="italics">Battle Hymn of the Republic</hi> and
<hi rend="italics">Maryland, My Maryland</hi>, even though as individuals
we may not commend all the sentiments of either.</p>
        <p>In choosing these poems free use has been made of,
first, the<hi rend="italics"> Library of Southern Literature</hi>, edited by
Charles W. Kent and others, published by the Martin
&amp; Hoyt Company, Atlanta, Georgia; second, <hi rend="italics">Three
Centuries of Southern Poetry</hi>, edited by Carl Holliday,
published by the Publishing House of the Methodist
Church, South, Nashville, Tennessee; third, <hi rend="italics">Songs of
the South</hi>, edited by Jennie Thornley Clarke,
published by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.
Acknowledgments to holders of copyright are made
at appropriate points throughout the following pages.</p>
      </div1>
      <pb id="kentv" n="v"/>
      <div1>
        <head>CONTENTS</head>
        <list type="simple">
          <item>UNKNOWN. </item>
          <item>Bacon's Epitaph . . . . . 				<ref target="kent1" targOrder="U">1</ref></item>
          <item>ST. GEORGE TUCKER: 1752 - 1828 </item>
          <item>Resignation: or, Days of My Youth . . . . . 		<ref target="kent2" targOrder="U">2</ref></item>
          <item>FRANCIS SCOTT KEY: 1779 - 1843 </item>
          <item>The Star-Spangled Banner . . . . . 			<ref target="kent3" targOrder="U">3</ref></item>
          <item>RICHARD HENRY WILDE: 1789 - 1847 </item>
          <item>My Life is like the Summer Rose . . . . . 		<ref target="kent5" targOrder="U">5</ref></item>
          <item>SAMUEL HENRY DICKSON: 1798 - 1872 </item>
          <item>I sigh for the Land of the Cypress and Pine . . . . . 	<ref target="kent6" targOrder="U">6</ref></item>
          <item>EDWARD COOTE PINKNEY: 1802 - 1828 </item>
          <item>A Health . . . . . 					<ref target="kent7" targOrder="U">7</ref></item>
          <item>WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS: 1806 -1870 </item>
          <item>The Swamp Fox . . . . . 				<ref target="kent8" targOrder="U">8</ref></item>
          <item>EDGAR ALLAN POE: 1809 -1849 </item>
          <item>Israfel . . . . . 						<ref target="kent11" targOrder="U">11</ref></item>
          <item>Annabel Lee . . . . . 					<ref target="kent13" targOrder="U">13</ref></item>
          <item>The Raven . . . . . 					<ref target="kent15" targOrder="U">15</ref></item>
          <item>ALBERT PIKE: 1809 -1891 </item>
          <item>Ode to the Mocking-Bird . . . . . 			<ref target="kent21" targOrder="U">21</ref></item>
          <item>ALEXANDER BEAUFORT MEEK: 1814 -1865 </item>
          <item>Land of the South . . . . . 				<ref target="kent23" targOrder="U">23</ref></item>
          <item>PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE: 1816 -1850 </item>
          <item>Florence Vane . . . . . 					<ref target="kent25" targOrder="U">25</ref></item>
          <item>THEODORE O'HARA: 1820 -1867 </item>
          <item>The Bivouac of the Dead . . . . . 			<ref target="kent27" targOrder="U">27</ref></item>
          <item>PHILO HENDERSON: 1822 -1852 </item>
          <item>The Long Ago . . . . . 					<ref target="kent30" targOrder="U">30</ref></item>
          <pb id="kentvi" n="vi"/>
          <item>FRANCIS ORRAY TICKNOR: 1822 - 1874 </item>
          <item>Little Giffen . . . . .                                                    <ref target="kent32" targOrder="U">32</ref></item>
          <item>JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON: 1822 - 1873 </item>
          <item>Music in Camp . . . . .                                             <ref target="kent33" targOrder="U">33</ref></item>
          <item>Carcassonne . . . . .                                                  <ref target="kent36" targOrder="U">36</ref></item>
          <item>The Window-Panes at Brandon . . . . .                     <ref target="kent38" targOrder="U">38</ref></item>
          <item>MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON: 1820 - 1897 </item>
          <item>Before Death . . . . .                                                     <ref target="kent40" targOrder="U">40</ref></item>
          <item>The Shade of the Trees . . . . .                                     <ref target="kent42" targOrder="U">42</ref></item>
          <item>Gone Forward . . . . .                                                     <ref target="kent43" targOrder="U">43</ref></item>
          <item>JAMES BARRON HOPE: 1829 - 1887 </item>
          <item>Washington - Pater Patriæ . . . . .             <ref target="kent44" targOrder="U">44</ref></item>
          <item>Our Anglo-Saxon Tongue . . . . .                       <ref target="kent46" targOrder="U">46</ref></item>
          <item>HENRY TIMROD: 1829 - 1867 </item>
          <item>A Common Thought . . . . .                  <ref target="kent47" targOrder="U">47</ref></item>
          <item>Ode for Decoration Day . . . . .             <ref target="kent48" targOrder="U">48</ref></item>
          <item>The Cotton Boll . . . . .                           <ref target="kent49" targOrder="U">49</ref></item>
          <item>PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE: 1830 - 1886 </item>
          <item>My Study . . . . .                                              <ref target="kent54" targOrder="U">54</ref></item>
          <item>The Pine's Mystery . . . . . 				<ref target="kent55" targOrder="U">55</ref></item>
          <item>The Will and the Wing	. . . . . 			<ref target="kent55" targOrder="U">55</ref></item>
          <item>A Dream of the South Winds . . . . . 			<ref target="kent56" targOrder="U">56</ref></item>
          <item>In Harbor . . . . . 					<ref target="kent58" targOrder="U">58</ref></item>
          <item>JAMES RYDER RANDALL: 1839 -1908</item>
          <item>Maryland . . . . . 					<ref target="kent59" targOrder="U">59</ref></item>
          <item>ABRAM J. RYAN: 1836 -1886</item>
          <item>The Conquered Banner . . . . . 			<ref target="kent62" targOrder="U">62</ref></item>
          <item>The Sword of Lee . . . . . 				<ref target="kent64" targOrder="U">64</ref></item>
          <item>A Land without Ruins . . . . . 				<ref target="kent65" targOrder="U">65</ref></item>
          <item>Better than Gold . . . . . 				<ref target="kent66" targOrder="U">66</ref></item>
          <item>THADDEUS OLIVER: 1826 -1864</item>
          <item>All Quiet Along the Potomac To-night	. . . . . 	<ref target="kent68" targOrder="U">68</ref></item>
          <item>HENRY THROOP STANTON: 1834 -1899</item>
          <item>The Moneyless Man . . . . . 			<ref target="kent70" targOrder="U">70</ref></item>
          <pb id="kentvii" n="vii"/>
          <item>MARIE LA COSTE: 18 -</item>
          <item>Somebody's Darling	. . . . . . 			<ref target="kent72" targOrder="U">72</ref></item>
          <item>SIDNEY LANIER: 1842 -1881</item>
          <item>Ballad of Trees and the Master . . . . . . 		<ref target="kent73" targOrder="U">73</ref></item>
          <item>The Mockingbird . . . . . 				<ref target="kent74" targOrder="U">74</ref></item>
          <item>JOHN HENRY BONER: 1845 -1903</item>
          <item>Poe's Cottage at Fordham . . . . . 			<ref target="kent75" targOrder="U">75</ref></item>
          <item>MOLLIE E. M. DAVIS: 1852 -1909</item>
          <item>Counsel . . . . . 					<ref target="kent77" targOrder="U">77</ref></item>
          <item>MAURICE THOMPSON: 1844 -1902</item>
          <item>Nectar and Ambrosia	. . . . . 			<ref target="kent78" targOrder="U">78</ref></item>
          <item>The Bluebird . . . . . 					<ref target="kent79" targOrder="U">79</ref></item>
          <item>FRANCES CHRISTINE TIERNAN: 1846 -</item>
          <item>Regret	. . . . . 					<ref target="kent80" targOrder="U">80</ref></item>
          <item>JOHN B. TABB: 1845 -1909</item>
          <item>Intimations . . . . . 					<ref target="kent82" targOrder="U">82</ref></item>
          <item>Keats . . . . . 						<ref target="kent83" targOrder="U">83</ref></item>
          <item>Killdee . . . . . 						<ref target="kent83" targOrder="U">83</ref></item>
          <item>A Trysting-Place . . . . . 				<ref target="kent84" targOrder="U">84</ref></item>
          <item>MARGUERITE E. EASTER: 1839 -1894</item>
          <item>The Wind-storm . . . . . 				<ref target="kent84" targOrder="U">84</ref></item>
          <item>Maple Leaves	. . . . . 				<ref target="kent85" targOrder="U">85</ref></item>
          <item>SAMUEL MINTURN PECK: 1854 -</item>
          <item>The Grapevine Swing . . . . . 				<ref target="kent86" targOrder="U">86</ref></item>
          <item>WILLIAM HAMILTON HAYNE: 1856 -</item>
          <item>Vernal Prophecies . . . . . 			<ref target="kent87" targOrder="U">87</ref></item>
          <item>A Sea Lyric . . . . . 					<ref target="kent88" targOrder="U">88</ref></item>
          <item>DANSKE DANDRIDGE: 1861 -</item>
          <item>To my Comrade Tree . . . . . 				<ref target="kent89" targOrder="U">89</ref></item>
          <item>MADISON CAWEIN: 1865 -</item>
          <item>The Whippoorwill . . . . . 				<ref target="kent91" targOrder="U">91</ref></item>
          <item>Evening on the Farm . . . . . 			<ref target="kent92" targOrder="U">92</ref></item>
          <pb id="kentviii" n="viii"/>
          <item>WALTER MALONE: 1866 -</item>
          <item>Opportunity . . . . . 					<ref target="kent95" targOrder="U">95</ref></item>
          <item>Florida Nocturne . . . . . 				<ref target="kent96" targOrder="U">96</ref></item>
          <item>HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS: 1855 -</item>
          <item>The Vulture and his Shadow . . . . . 		<ref target="kent97" targOrder="U">97</ref></item>
          <item>WILLIAM GORDON McCABE: 1841 -</item>
          <item>Dreaming in the Trenches . . . . . 		<ref target="kent98" targOrder="U">98</ref></item>
          <item>DANIEL BEDINGER LUCAS: 1836 -1909</item>
          <item>The Land Where We Were Dreaming . . . . . 	<ref target="kent100" targOrder="U">100</ref></item>
          <item>MARY McNEIL FENOLLOSA: 18 -</item>
          <item>The Magnolia	. . . . . 				<ref target="kent103" targOrder="U">103</ref></item>
          <item>BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES . . . . . 				<ref target="kent105" targOrder="U">105</ref></item>
          <item>INDEX OF TITLES . . . . . 					<ref target="kent111" targOrder="U">111</ref></item>
          <item>INDEX OF AUTHORS	. . . . . 				<ref target="kent112" targOrder="U">112</ref></item>
        </list>
      </div1>
    </front>
    <body>
      <pb id="kent1" n="1"/>
      <div0 type="main">
        <head>SOUTHERN POEMS</head>
        <div1 type="poem">
          <head>BACON'S EPITAPH</head>
          <docAuthor>UNKNOWN</docAuthor>
          <argument>
            <p>In 1814 the Massachusetts Historical Society published the
<hi rend="italics">Burwell Papers</hi>, so called because of the family in whose possession these
papers had long remained. At the close of <hi rend="italics">Bacon's Proceedings</hi> in
these papers stands the following remarkable poem, entitled <hi rend="italics">Bacon's
Epitaph, Made by his Man</hi>, and presumably written soon after Bacon's
death in 1676.</p>
          </argument>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>DEATH, why so cruel? What! No other way</l>
            <l>To manifest thy spleen, but thus to slay</l>
            <l>Our hopes of safety, liberty, our all,</l>
            <l>Which through thy tyranny with him  <ref id="ref2" n="2" rend="sc" target="note2" targOrder="U">1</ref> must fall</l>
            <l>To its late chaos?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . </l>
            <l>. . . . . . . . .  . . Now we must complain,			5</l>
            <l>Since thou, in him, hast more than thousand slain,</l>
            <l>Whose lives and safeties did so much depend</l>
            <l>On him their life, with him their lives must end.</l>
            <l>. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . </l>
            <l>Who now must heal those wounds, or stop that
	blood</l>
            <l>The Heathen made and drew into a flood?		10</l>
            <l>Who is 't must plead our cause? Nor trump nor
	drum</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note2" n="2" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref2">1. Nathaniel Bacon, born in Suffolk, England, in 1647;
established a plantation on James River Virginia; without a
commission marched against the Indians in 1676; declared a rebel;
died on October 1,1676.</note>
          <pb id="kent2" n="2"/>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Nor Deputations; these, alas! are dumb</l>
            <l>And cannot speak. Our Arms (though ne'er so strong)</l>
            <l>Will want the aid of his commanding tongue</l>
            <l>Which conquer'd more than Cæsar. He o'erthrew	15</l>
            <l>Only the outward frame; this could subdue</l>
            <l>The rugged works of nature. Souls replete</l>
            <l>With dull chill cold, he'd animate with heat</l>
            <l>Drawn forth of reason's limbic. In a word,</l>
            <l>Mars and Minerva both in him concurred		20</l>
            <l>For art, for arms, whose pen and sword alike,</l>
            <l>As Cato's did, may admiration strike</l>
            <l>Into his foes; while they confess withal</l>
            <l>It was their guilt styl'd him a criminal.</l>
            <l>Only this difference does from truth proceed;		25</l>
            <l>They in the guilt, he in the name must bleed.</l>
            <l>While none shall dare his obsequies to sing</l>
            <l>In deserv'd measures; until time shall bring</l>
            <l>Truth crown'd with freedom, and from danger free</l>
            <l>To sound his praises to posterity.			30</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Here let him rest; while we this truth report</l>
            <l>He 's gone from thence unto a higher Court</l>
            <l>To plead his cause, where he by this doth know</l>
            <l>Whether to Cæsar he was friend or foe.</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="poem">
          <head>RESIGNATION: OR, DAYS OF MY YOUTH</head>
          <docAuthor>ST. GEORGE TUCKER</docAuthor>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>DAYS of my youth, ye have glided away;</l>
            <l>Hairs of my youth, ye are frosted and gray;</l>
            <l>Eyes of my youth, your keen sight is no more;</l>
            <l>Cheeks of my youth, ye are furrowed all o'er;</l>
            <l>Strength of my youth, all your vigor is gone;			5</l>
            <l>Thoughts of my youth, your gay visions are flown.</l>
          </lg>
          <pb id="kent3" n="3"/>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Days of my youth, I wish not your recall;</l>
            <l>Hairs of my youth, I'm content ye shall fall;</l>
            <l>Eyes of my youth, you much evil have seen;</l>
            <l>Cheeks of my youth, bathed in tears have you been;  		10</l>
            <l>Thoughts of my youth, you have led me astray;</l>
            <l>Strength of my youth, why lament your decay?</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>Days of my age, ye will shortly be past;</l>
            <l>Pains of my age, yet a while ye can last;</l>
            <l>Joys of my age, in true wisdom delight;			      15</l>
            <l>Eyes of my age, be religion your light;</l>
            <l>Thoughts of my age, dread ye not the cold sod;</l>
            <l>Hopes of my age, be ye fixed on your God.</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="poem">
          <head>THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER</head>
          <docAuthor>FRANCIS SCOTT KEY</docAuthor>
          <argument>
            <p>Written during the bombardment of Fort McHenry, in Baltimore,
in 1814.</p>
          </argument>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>O! SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light,</l>
            <l>What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last
	gleaming -</l>
            <l>Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the
	clouds of the fight,</l>
            <l> O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly
	streaming?</l>
            <l>And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in
	air,								5</l>
            <l>Gave proof through the night that our flag was still
	there;</l>
            <l>O! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave</l>
            <l>O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?</l>
          </lg>
          <pb id="kent4" n="4"/>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the
	deep,</l>
            <l>Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence
		reposes,						10</l>
            <l>What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering
		steep,</l>
            <l>As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses?</l>
            <l>Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,</l>
            <l>In full glory reflected now shines on the stream;</l>
            <l>'T is the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave		      15</l>
            <l>O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>And where is that band who so vauntingly swore</l>
            <l>That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion</l>
            <l>A home and a country should leave us no more?</l>
            <l>Their blood has washed out their foul footstep's
		pollution.						20</l>
            <l>No refuge could save the hireling and slave</l>
            <l>From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave;</l>
            <l>And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave</l>
            <l>O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand		          25</l>
            <l>Between their loved homes and the war's desolation!</l>
            <l>Blessed with victory and peace, may the Heav'n-
		rescued land</l>
            <l>Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us
		a nation!</l>
            <l>Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,</l>
            <l>And this be our motto-“In God is our trust!”			       30</l>
            <l>And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave</l>
            <l>O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <pb id="kent5" n="5"/>
        <div1>
          <head>MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE</head>
          <docAuthor>RICHARD HENRY WILDE</docAuthor>
          <argument>
            <p>Originally entitled <hi rend="italics">Stanzas</hi>, and inscribed to Ellen Adair, daughter
of General John Adair of Kentucky.</p>
          </argument>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>MY life is like the summer rose,</l>
            <l>That opens to the morning sky,</l>
            <l>But, ere the shades of evening close,</l>
            <l>Is scattered on the ground - to die!</l>
            <l>Yet on the rose's humble bed					5</l>
            <l>The sweetest dews of night are shed,</l>
            <l>As if she wept the waste to see -</l>
            <l>But none shall weep a tear for me!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>My life is like the autumn leaf</l>
            <l>That trembles in the moon's pale ray:			10</l>
            <l>Its hold is frail - its date is brief,</l>
            <l>Restless - and soon to pass away!</l>
            <l>Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade,</l>
            <l>The parent tree will mourn its shade,</l>
            <l>The winds bewail the leafless tree - 				15</l>
            <l>But none shall breathe a sigh for me!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>My life is like the prints which feet</l>
            <l>Have left on Tampa's desert strand;</l>
            <l>Soon as the rising tide shall beat,</l>
            <l>All trace will vanish from the sand;			20</l>
            <l>Yet, as if grieving to efface</l>
            <l>All vestige of the human race,</l>
            <l>On that lone shore loud moans the sea -</l>
            <l>But none, alas! shall mourn for me!</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <pb id="kent6" n="6"/>
        <div1 type="poem">
          <head>I SIGH FOR THE LAND OF THE CYPRESS
		 AND PINE</head>
          <docAuthor>SAMUEL HENRY DICKSON</docAuthor>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>I SIGH for the land of the cypress and pine,</l>
            <l>Where the jessamine blooms, and the gay
	woodbine;</l>
            <l>Where the moss droops low from the green oak
	tree, - </l>
            <l>Oh, that sun-bright land is the land for me!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>The snowy flower of the orange there			5</l>
            <l>Sheds its sweet fragrance through the air;</l>
            <l>And the Indian rose delights to twine</l>
            <l>Its branches with the laughing vine.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>There the deer leaps light through the open glade,</l>
            <l>Or hides him far in the forest shade,				10</l>
            <l>When the woods resound in the dewy morn</l>
            <l>With the clang of the merry hunter's horn.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>There the hummingbird, of rainbow plume,</l>
            <l>Hangs over the scarlet creeper's bloom;</l>
            <l>While 'midst the leaves his varying dyes			15</l>
            <l>Sparkle like half-seen fairy eyes.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>There the echoes ring through the livelong day</l>
            <l>With the mock-bird's changeful roundelay;</l>
            <l>And at night, when the scene is calm and still,</l>
            <l>With the moan of the plaintive whip-poor-will.			20</l>
          </lg>
          <pb id="kent7" n="7"/>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Oh! I sigh for the land of the cypress and pine,</l>
            <l>Of the laurel, the rose, and the gay woodbine,</l>
            <l>Where the long, gray moss decks the rugged oak
	tree, - </l>
            <l>That sun-bright land is the land for me.</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1>
          <head>A HEALTH <ref id="ref3" n="3" rend="sc" target="note3" targOrder="U">1</ref></head>
          <docAuthor> EDWARD COOTE PINKNEY</docAuthor>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>I FILL this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,</l>
            <l>A woman of her gentle sex the seeming paragon;</l>
            <l>To whom the better elements and kindly stars have
	given</l>
            <l>A form so fair that, like the air, 't is less of earth
	than heaven.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning
	birds,							5</l>
            <l>And something more than melody dwells ever in her
	words;</l>
            <l>The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips
	each flows</l>
            <l>As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from
	the rose.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures of her
	hours;</l>
            <l>Her feelings have the fragrancy, the freshness of
	young flowers;						10</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note3" n="3" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref3">1. According to Holliday (<hi rend="italics">Three Centuries of Southern Poetry</hi>,
Nashville, 1908), this poem was written in honor of Miss Rebecca
Somerville, of Baltimore.</note>
          <pb id="kent8" n="8"/>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>And lovely passions, changing oft, so fill her she
	appears</l>
            <l>The image of themselves by turns - the idol of past
	years!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on
	the brain,</l>
            <l>And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long
	remain;</l>
            <l>But memory, such as mine of her, so very much
	endears,							15</l>
            <l>When death is nigh my latest sigh will not be life's,
	but hers.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,</l>
            <l>A woman of her gentle sex the seeming paragon - </l>
            <l>Her health! and would on earth there stood some
	more of such a frame,					19</l>
            <l> That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1>
          <head>THE SWAMP FOX</head>
          <docAuthor>WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS</docAuthor>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>WE follow where the Swamp Fox  <ref id="ref4" n="4" rend="sc" target="note4" targOrder="U">1</ref>  guides,</l>
            <l>His friends and merry men are we;</l>
            <l>And when the troop of Tarleton rides,</l>
            <l>We burrow in the cypress tree.</l>
            <l>The turfy hammock is our bed,					5</l>
            <l>Our home is in the red deer's den,</l>
            <l>Our roof, the tree-top overhead,</l>
            <l>For we are wild and hunted men.</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note4" n="4" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref4">1. General Francis Marion of Revolutionary fame.</note>
          <pb id="kent9" n="9"/>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>We fly by day and shun its light,</l>
            <l>But prompt to strike the sudden blow,			10</l>
            <l>We mount and start with early night,</l>
            <l>And through the forest track our foe,</l>
            <l>And soon he hears our chargers leap,</l>
            <l>The flashing saber blinds his eyes,</l>
            <l>And ere he drives away his sleep,				15</l>
            <l>And rushes from his camp, he dies.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Free bridle-bit, good gallant steed,</l>
            <l>That will not ask a kind caress</l>
            <l>To swim the Santee at our need,</l>
            <l>When on his heels the foemen press - 		20</l>
            <l>The true heart and the ready hand,</l>
            <l>The spirit stubborn to be free,</l>
            <l>The twisted bore, the smiting brand -</l>
            <l>And we are Marion's men, you see.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Now light the fire and cook the meal,				25</l>
            <l>The last, perhaps, that we shall taste;</l>
            <l>I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal,</l>
            <l>And that's a sign we move in haste.</l>
            <l>He whistles to the scouts, and hark!</l>
            <l>You hear his order calm and low.			30</l>
            <l>Come, wave your torch across the dark,</l>
            <l>And let us see the boys that go.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>We may not see their forms again,</l>
            <l>God help 'em, should they find the strife!</l>
            <l>For they are strong and fearless men,				35</l>
            <l>And make no coward terms for life;</l>
            <l>They'll fight as long as Marion bids,</l>
            <l>And when he speaks the word to shy,</l>
            <pb id="kent10" n="10"/>
            <l>Then, not till then, they turn their steeds,</l>
            <l>Through thickening shade and swamp to fly.		40</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>Now stir the fire and lie at ease - </l>
            <l>The scouts are gone, and on the brush</l>
            <l>I see the Colonel bend his knees,</l>
            <l>To take his slumbers too. But hush!</l>
            <l>He's praying, comrades; 't is not strange;			45</l>
            <l>The man that's fighting day by day</l>
            <l>May well, when night comes, take a change,</l>
            <l>And down upon his knees to pray.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>Break up that hoecake, boys, and hand</l>
            <l>The sly and silent jug that 's there;			50</l>
            <l>I love not it should idly stand</l>
            <l>When Marion's men have need of cheer.</l>
            <l>'T is seldom that our luck affords</l>
            <l>A stuff like this we just have quaffed,</l>
            <l>And dry potatoes on our boards				55</l>
            <l>May always call for such a draught.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Now pile the brush and roll the log;</l>
            <l>Hard pillow, but a soldier's head</l>
            <l>That's half the time in brake and bog</l>
            <l>Must never think of softer bed.				60</l>
            <l>The owl is hooting to the night,</l>
            <l>The cooter crawling o'er the bank,</l>
            <l>And in that pond the flashing light</l>
            <l>Tells where the alligator sank.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>What! 't is the signal! start so soon,				65</l>
            <l>And through the Santee swamp so deep,</l>
            <l>Without the aid of friendly moon,</l>
            <l>And we, Heaven help us! half asleep!</l>
            <pb id="kent11" n="11"/>
            <l>But courage, comrades! Marion leads;</l>
            <l>The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night;			70</l>
            <l>So clear your swords and spur your steeds,</l>
            <l>There's goodly chance, I think, of fight.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,</l>
            <l>We leave the swamp and cypress tree,</l>
            <l>Our spurs are in our coursers' sides,				75</l>
            <l>And ready for the strife are we.</l>
            <l>The Tory camp is now in sight,</l>
            <l>And there he cowers within his den;</l>
            <l>He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight,</l>
            <l>He fears, and flies from Marion's men.			80</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="section">
          <head>ISRAFEL</head>
          <docAuthor>EDGAR ALLAN POE</docAuthor>
          <epigraph>
            <p>“And the angel, Israfel, whose heartstrings are a lute, and who
has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures.” - <hi rend="italics">The Koran.</hi></p>
          </epigraph>
          <lg>
            <l>IN Heaven a spirit doth dwell</l>
            <l>Whose heartstrings are a lute;</l>
            <l>None sing so wildly well</l>
            <l>As the angel Israfel,</l>
            <l>And the giddy stars (so legends tell),		5</l>
            <l>Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell</l>
            <l>Of his voice, all mute.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>Tottering above</l>
            <l>In her highest noon,</l>
            <l>The enamored moon					10</l>
            <l>Blushes with love,</l>
            <l>While, to listen, the red levin</l>
            <l>(With the rapid Pleiads, even,</l>
            <pb id="kent12" n="12"/>
            <l>Which were seven)</l>
            <l>Pauses in Heaven.					15</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>And they say (the starry choir</l>
            <l>And the other listening things)</l>
            <l>That Israfeli's fire</l>
            <l>Is owing to that lyre</l>
            <l>By which he sits and sings, - 		20</l>
            <l>The trembling living wire</l>
            <l>Of those unusual strings.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>But the skies that angel trod,</l>
            <l>Where deep thoughts are a duty,</l>
            <l>Where Love's a grown-up God,				25</l>
            <l>Where the Houri glances are</l>
            <l>Imbued with all the beauty</l>
            <l>Which we worship in a star.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>Therefore thou art not wrong,</l>
            <l>Israfeli, who despisest				30</l>
            <l>An unimpassioned song;</l>
            <l>To thee the laurels belong,</l>
            <l>Best bard, because the wisest:</l>
            <l>Merrily live, and long!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>The ecstasies above					35</l>
            <l>With thy burning measures suit:</l>
            <l>Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,</l>
            <l>With the fervor of thy lute;</l>
            <l>Well may the stars be mute!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>Yes, Heaven is thine; but this			40</l>
            <l>Is a world of sweets and sours;</l>
            <l>Our flowers are merely - flowers,</l>
            <pb id="kent13" n="13"/>
            <l>And the shadow of thy perfect bliss</l>
            <l>Is the sunshine of ours.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>If I could dwell						45</l>
            <l>Where Israfel</l>
            <l>Hath dwelt, and he where I,</l>
            <l>He might not sing so wildly well</l>
            <l>A mortal melody,</l>
            <l>While a bolder note than this might swell		50</l>
            <l>From my lyre within the sky.</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="section">
          <head>ANNABEL LEE</head>
          <docAuthor>EDGAR ALLAN POE</docAuthor>
          <argument>
            <p>This poem appeared in the <hi rend="italics">New York Tribune</hi>, October 9, 1849,
two days after Poe's death. Presumably the poem refers to Mrs. Poe. <ref id="ref5" n="5" rend="sc" target="note5" targOrder="U">1</ref></p>
          </argument>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>IT was many and many a year ago,</l>
            <l>In a kingdom by the sea,</l>
            <l>That a maiden there lived whom you may know</l>
            <l>By the name of Annabel Lee;</l>
            <l>And this maiden she lived with no other thought	5</l>
            <l>Than to love and be loved by me.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l><hi rend="italics">I</hi> was a child and <hi rend="italics">she</hi> was a child,</l>
            <l>In this kingdom by the sea;</l>
            <l>But we loved with a love that was more than love,</l>
            <l>I and my Annabel Lee;				10</l>
            <l>With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven</l>
            <l>Coveted her and me.</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note5" n="5" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref5">1. For another interpretation see vol. VII, p. 218, of the
Virginia edition of Poe's <hi rend="italics">Works</hi>, edited by James A. Harrison,
New York, 1902.</note>
          <pb id="kent14" n="14"/>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>And this was the reason that, long ago,</l>
            <l>In this kingdom by the sea,</l>
            <l>A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling		15</l>
            <l>My beautiful Annabel Lee;</l>
            <l>So that her highborn kinsmen came</l>
            <l>And bore her away from me,</l>
            <l>To shut her up in a sepulcher</l>
            <l>In this kingdom by the sea.			20</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>The angels, not half so happy in heaven,</l>
            <l>Went envying her and me;</l>
            <l>Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,</l>
            <l>In this kingdom by the sea)</l>
            <l>That the wind came out of the cloud by night,	25</l>
            <l>Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>But our love it was stronger by far than the love</l>
            <l>Of those who were older than we,</l>
            <l>Of many far wiser than we;</l>
            <l>And neither the angels in heaven above,		30</l>
            <l>Nor the demons down under the sea,</l>
            <l>Can ever dissever my soul from the soul</l>
            <l>Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>For the moon never beams, without bringing me
		dreams</l>
            <l>Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;			35</l>
            <l>And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes</l>
            <l>Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:</l>
            <l>And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side</l>
            <l>Of my darling - my darling - my life and my bride,</l>
            <l>In her sepulcher there by the sea,		40</l>
            <l>In her tomb by the sounding sea.</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="section">
          <pb id="kent15" n="15"/>
          <head>THE RAVEN</head>
          <docAuthor>EDGAR ALLAN POE</docAuthor>
          <argument>
            <p>First published in <hi rend="italics">The Evening Mirror</hi> on January 29, 1845.</p>
          </argument>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak
	and weary,</l>
            <l>Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten
	lore, -</l>
            <l>While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came
	a tapping,</l>
            <l>As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber
	door.</l>
            <l>“ 'T is some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my 
	chamber door: 						5</l>
            <l>Only this and nothing more.”</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak
	December;</l>
            <l>And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon
	the floor.</l>
            <l>Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought 
	to borrow</l>
            <l>From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the
	lost Lenore,					10</l>
            <l>For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels
	name Lenore:</l>
            <l>Nameless here for evermore.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple
	curtain</l>
            <l>Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never
	felt before;</l>
            <pb id="kent16" n="16"/>
            <l>So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood
	repeating: 						15</l>
            <l>“ 'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber
	door,</l>
            <l>Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber
	door:</l>
            <l>This it is and nothing more.”</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no
	longer,</l>
            <l>“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I
	implore;						20</l>
            <l>But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came
	rapping,</l>
            <l>And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my
	chamber door,</l>
            <l>That I scarce was sure I heard you” - here I opened
	wide the door: - </l>
            <l>Darkness there and nothing more.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there
	wondering, fearing, 				25</l>
            <l>Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to
	dream before;</l>
            <l>But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave
	no token,</l>
            <l>And the only word there spoken was the whispered
	word, “Lenore?”</l>
            <l>This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the
	word, “Lenore!”</l>
            <l>Merely this and nothing more.		30</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me
	burning,</l>
            <pb id="kent17" n="17"/>
            <l>Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than
	before.</l>
            <l>“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my
	window lattice;</l>
            <l>Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery
	explore;</l>
            <l>Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery
	explore:						35</l>
            <l>'T is the wind and nothing more.”</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt
	and flutter,</l>
            <l>In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days
	of yore.</l>
            <l>Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute
	stopped or stayed he;</l>
            <l>But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my
	chamber door,					40</l>
            <l>Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber
	door:</l>
            <l>Perched, and sat, and nothing more.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into
	smiling</l>
            <l>By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it
	wore, -</l>
            <l>“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, 
	“art sure no craven,				45</l>
            <l>Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the
	Nightly shore:</l>
            <l>Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's
	Plutonian shore!”</l>
            <l>Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”</l>
          </lg>
          <pb id="kent18" n="18"/>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse
	so plainly,</l>
            <l>Though his answer little meaning - little relevancy
	bore; 						50</l>
            <l>For we cannot help agreeing that no living human
	being</l>
            <l>Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his
	chamber door,</l>
            <l>Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his
	chamber door,</l>
            <l>With such name as “Nevermore.”</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust,
	spoke only							55</l>
            <l>That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did
	outpour.</l>
            <l>Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he
	fluttered,</l>
            <l>Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other friends
	have flown before:</l>
            <l>On the morrow <hi rend="italics">he</hi> will leave me, as my Hopes have
	flown before.”</l>
            <l>Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”		60</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly
	spoken,</l>
            <l>“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock
	and store,</l>
            <l>Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful
	Disaster</l>
            <l>Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one
	burden bore:</l>
            <l>Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden
	bore								65</l>
            <l>Of ‘Never - nevermore.’ ”</l>
          </lg>
          <pb id="kent19" n="19"/>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into
	smiling,</l>
            <l>Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird
	and bust and door;</l>
            <l>Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to
	linking</l>
            <l>Fancy into fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of
	yore,								70</l>
            <l>What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous
	bird of yore</l>
            <l>Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable
	expressing</l>
            <l>To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my
	bosom's core;</l>
            <l>This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease
	reclining							75</l>
            <l>On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight
	gloated o'er,</l>
            <l>But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight
	gloating o'er</l>
            <l><hi rend="italics">She</hi> shall press, ah, nevermore!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from
	an unseen censer</l>
            <l>Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the
	tufted floor.						80</l>
            <l>“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee - by
	these angels he hath sent thee</l>
            <l>Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories
	of Lenore;</l>
            <l>Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this
	lost Lenore!”</l>
            <l>Quoth the Raven. “Nevermore.”</l>
          </lg>
          <pb id="kent20" n="20"/>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! prophet still, if
	bird or devil!						85</l>
            <l>Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed
	thee here ashore,</l>
            <l>Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land
	enchanted - </l>
            <l>On this home by Horror haunted - tell me truly, I
	implore:</l>
            <l>Is there - <hi rend="italics">is </hi>there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell
	me, I implore!”</l>
            <l>Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”			90</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! prophet still, if
	bird or devil!</l>
            <l>By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we
	both adore,</l>
            <l>Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant
	Aidenn,</l>
            <l>It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels
	name Lenore:</l>
            <l>Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels
	name Lenore!”						95</l>
            <l>Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!”
	I shrieked, upstarting:</l>
            <l>“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's
	Plutonian shore!</l>
            <l>Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul
	hath spoken!</l>
            <l>Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above
	my door!							100</l>
            <l>Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form
	from off my door!”</l>
            <l>Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”</l>
          </lg>
          <pb id="kent21" n="21"/>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is
	sitting</l>
            <l>On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber
	door;</l>
            <l>And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that
	is dreaming,						105</l>
            <l>And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his
	shadow on the floor:</l>
            <l>And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating
	on the floor</l>
            <l>Shall be lifted - nevermore!</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="poem">
          <head>ODE TO THE MOCKING-BIRD</head>
          <docAuthor>ALBERT PIKE</docAuthor>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>THOU glorious mocker of the world! I hear</l>
            <l>Thy many voices ringing through the glooms</l>
            <l>Of these green solitudes; and all the clear,</l>
            <l>Bright joyance of their song enthralls the ear,</l>
            <l>And floods the heart. Over the spherèd tombs	5</l>
            <l>Of vanished nations rolls thy music tide;</l>
            <l>No light from History's starlit page illumes</l>
            <l>The memory of these nations; they have died:</l>
            <l>None care for them but thou; and thou mayst sing</l>
            <l>O'er me perhaps, as now thy clear notes ring	10</l>
            <l>Over their bones by whom thou once wast deified.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Glad scorner of all cities! Thou dost leave</l>
            <l>The world's mad turmoil and incessant din,</l>
            <l>Where none in other's honesty believe,</l>
            <l>Where the old sigh, the young turn gray and grieve,</l>
            <l>Where misery gnaws the maiden's heart within:</l>
            <l>Thou fleest far into the dark green woods,</l>
            <pb id="kent22" n="22"/>
            <l>Where, with thy flood of music, thou canst win</l>
            <l>Their heart to harmony, and where intrudes</l>
            <l>No discord on thy melodies. O, where,		20</l>
            <l>Among the sweet musicians of the air,</l>
            <l>Is one so dear as thou to these odd solitudes?</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Ha! what a burst was that! The Æolian strain</l>
            <l>Goes floating through the tangled passages</l>
            <l>Of the still woods, and now it comes again,		25</l>
            <l>A multitudinous melody, - like a rain</l>
            <l>Of glassy music under echoing trees,</l>
            <l>Close by a ringing lake. It wraps the soul</l>
            <l>With a bright harmony of happiness,</l>
            <l>Even as a gem is wrapped when round it roll		30</l>
            <l>Thin waves of crimson flame; till we become,</l>
            <l>With the excess of perfect pleasure, dumb,</l>
            <l>And pant like a swift runner clinging to the goal.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>I cannot love the man who doth not love,</l>
            <l>As men love light, the song of happy birds;	35</l>
            <l>For the first visions that my boy heart wove</l>
            <l>To fill its sleep with, were that I did rove</l>
            <l>Through the fresh woods, what time the snowy herds</l>
            <l>Of morning clouds shrunk from the advancing sun</l>
            <l>Into the depths of Heaven's blue heart, as words	40</l>
            <l>From the Poet's lips float gently, one by one,</l>
            <l>And vanish in the human heart; and then</l>
            <l>I reveled in such songs, and sorrowed when,</l>
            <l>With noon-heat overwrought, the music-gush was
		done.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>I would, sweet bird, that I might live with thee,	45</l>
            <l>Amid the eloquent grandeur of these shades,</l>
            <l>Alone with nature - but it may not be;</l>
            <pb id="kent23" n="23"/>
            <l>I have to struggle with the stormy sea</l>
            <l>Of human life until existence fades</l>
            <l>Into death's darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar		50</l>
            <l>Through the thick woods and shadow-checkered
		glades,</l>
            <l>While pain and sorrow cast no dimness o'er</l>
            <l>The brilliance of thy heart; but I must wear,</l>
            <l>As now, my garments of regret and care,</l>
            <l>As penitents of old their galling sackcloth wore.	55</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Yet why complain? What though fond hopes deferred</l>
            <l>Have overshadowed Life's green paths with gloom?</l>
            <l>Content's soft music is not all unheard;</l>
            <l>There is a voice sweeter than shine, sweet bird,</l>
            <l>To welcome me within my humble home:		60</l>
            <l>There is an eye, with love's devotion bright,</l>
            <l>The darkness of existence to illume.</l>
            <l>Then why complain? When Death shall cast his
		blight</l>
            <l>Over the spirit, my cold bones shall rest</l>
            <l>Beneath these trees; and from thy swelling breast,	65</l>
            <l>Over them pour thy song, like a rich flood of light.</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="poem">
          <head>LAND OF THE SOUTH</head>
          <docAuthor>ALEXANDER BEAUFORT MEEK</docAuthor>
          <argument>
            <p>These stanzas were introduced in an address entitled “The Day of
Freedom,” delivered in 1838.</p>
          </argument>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <head>I</head>
            <l>LAND of the South! - imperial land! -</l>
            <l>How proud thy mountains rise!</l>
            <l>How sweet thy scenes on every hand!</l>
            <l>How fair thy covering skies!</l>
            <pb id="kent24" n="24"/>
            <l>But not for this - oh, not for these - 			5</l>
            <l>I love thy fields to roam;</l>
            <l>Thou hast a dearer spell to me, - </l>
            <l>Thou art my native home!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <head>II</head>
            <l>Thy rivers roll their liquid wealth,</l>
            <l>Unequaled to the sea;					10</l>
            <l>Thy hills and valleys bloom with health,</l>
            <l>And green with verdure be!</l>
            <l>But not for thy proud ocean streams,</l>
            <l>Not for thy azure dome,</l>
            <l>Sweet, sunny South, I cling to thee, - 			15</l>
            <l>Thou art my native home!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <head>III</head>
            <l>I've stood beneath Italia's clime,</l>
            <l>Beloved of tale and song,</l>
            <l>On Helvyn's  <ref id="ref6" n="6" rend="sc" target="note6" targOrder="U">1</ref>  hills, proud and sublime,</l>
            <l>Where nature's wonders throng;			20</l>
            <l>By Tempe's classic sunlit streams,</l>
            <l>Where Gods, of old, did roam, - </l>
            <l>But ne'er have found so fair a land</l>
            <l>As thou, my native home!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <head>IV</head>
            <l>And thou hast prouder glories, too,				25</l>
            <l>Than nature ever gave;</l>
            <l>Peace sheds o'er thee her genial dew,</l>
            <l>And Freedom's pinions wave;</l>
            <l>Fair Science flings her pearls around,</l>
            <l>Religion lifts her dome, -				30</l>
            <l>These, these endear thee to my heart,</l>
            <l>My own, loved native home!</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note6" n="6" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref6">1.  Helvyn, poetical name for Switzerland.</note>
          <pb id="kent25" n="25"/>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <head>V</head>
            <l>And “Heaven's best gift to man” is thine - </l>
            <l>God bless thy rosy girls!</l>
            <l>Like sylvan flowers they sweetly shine, 			35</l>
            <l>Their hearts are pure as pearls!</l>
            <l>And grace and goodness circle them,</l>
            <l>Where'er their footsteps roam;</l>
            <l>How can I then, whilst loving them,</l>
            <l>Not love my native home?				40</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <head>VI</head>
            <l>Land of the South! - imperial land! -</l>
            <l>Then here 's a health to thee:</l>
            <l>Long as thy mountain barriers stand,</l>
            <l>May'st thou be blest and free!</l>
            <l>May dark dissension's banner ne'er				45</l>
            <l>Wave o'er thy fertile loam!</l>
            <l>But should it come, there's one will die</l>
            <l>To save his native home!</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="poem">
          <head>FLORENCE VANE</head>
          <docAuthor>PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE</docAuthor>
          <argument>
            <p>Published in <hi rend="italics">The Gentleman's Magazine</hi> in 1839, while Poe was its
editor. It was not personal in its address.</p>
          </argument>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>I LOVED thee long and dearly,</l>
            <l>Florence Vane;</l>
            <l>My life's bright dream and early</l>
            <l>Hath come again;</l>
            <l>I renew in my fond vision				5</l>
            <l>My heart's dear pain,</l>
            <l>My hope and thy derision,</l>
            <l>Florence Vane!</l>
          </lg>
          <pb id="kent26" n="26"/>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>The ruin, lone and hoary,</l>
            <l>The ruin old,					10</l>
            <l>Where thou didst hark my story,</l>
            <l>At even told, - </l>
            <l>That spot - the hues Elysian</l>
            <l>Of sky and plain - </l>
            <l>I treasure in my vision,				15</l>
            <l>Florence Vane.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Thou wast lovelier than the roses</l>
            <l>In their prime;</l>
            <l>Thy voice excelled the closes</l>
            <l>Of sweetest rhyme;				20</l>
            <l>Thy heart was as a river</l>
            <l>Without a main.</l>
            <l>Would I had loved thee never,</l>
            <l>Florence Vane!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>But, fairest, coldest wonder				25</l>
            <l>Thy glorious clay</l>
            <l>Lieth the green sod under - </l>
            <l>Alas the day!</l>
            <l>And it boots not to remember</l>
            <l>Thy disdain -					30</l>
            <l>To quicken love's pale ember,</l>
            <l>Florence Vane!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>The lilies of the valley</l>
            <l>By young graves weep,</l>
            <l>The pansies love to dally				35</l>
            <l>Where maidens sleep:</l>
            <l>May their bloom, in beauty vying,</l>
            <l>Never wane</l>
            <l>Where thine earthly part is lying,</l>
            <l>Florence Vane!					40</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <pb id="kent27" n="27"/>
        <div1>
          <head>THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD</head>
          <docAuthor>THEODORE O'HARA</docAuthor>
          <argument>
            <p>Read by its author when his comrades who had fallen in Mexico were
buried in Frankfort, Kentucky, in 1847.</p>
          </argument>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat</l>
            <l>The soldier's last tattoo;</l>
            <l>No more on life's parade shall meet</l>
            <l>That brave and fallen few.</l>
            <l>On Fame's eternal camping-ground			5</l>
            <l>Their silent tents are spread,</l>
            <l>And Glory guards, with solemn round,</l>
            <l>The bivouac of the dead.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>No rumor of the foe's advance</l>
            <l>Now swells upon the wind;			10</l>
            <l>No troubled thought at midnight haunts</l>
            <l>Of loved ones left behind;</l>
            <l>No vision of the morrow's strife</l>
            <l>The warrior's dream alarms;</l>
            <l>No braying horn nor screaming fife			15</l>
            <l>At dawn shall call to arms.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>Their shivered swords are red with rust,</l>
            <l>Their plumèd heads are bowed;</l>
            <l>Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,</l>
            <l>Is now their martial shroud.			20</l>
            <l>And plenteous funeral tears have washed</l>
            <l>The red stains from each brow,</l>
            <l>And the proud forms, by battle gashed,</l>
            <l>Are free from anguish now.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>The neighing troop, the flashing blade,		25</l>
            <l>The bugle's stirring blast,</l>
            <pb id="kent28" n="28"/>
            <l>The charge, the dreadful cannonade,</l>
            <l>The din and shout, are past;</l>
            <l>Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal</l>
            <l>Shall thrill with fierce delight		30</l>
            <l>Those breasts that never more may feel</l>
            <l>The rapture of the fight.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Like the fierce northern hurricane</l>
            <l>That sweeps this great plateau,</l>
            <l>Flushed with triumph yet to gain,			35</l>
            <l>Came down the serried foe. <ref id="ref7" n="7" rend="sc" target="note7" targOrder="U">1</ref> </l>
            <l>Who heard the thunder of the fray</l>
            <l>Break o'er the field beneath,</l>
            <l>Knew well the watchword of that day</l>
            <l>Was “Victory or death.”				40</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Long had the doubtful conflict raged</l>
            <l>O'er all that stricken plain,</l>
            <l>For never fiercer fight had waged</l>
            <l>The vengeful blood of Spain;</l>
            <l>And still the storm of battle blew,			45</l>
            <l>Still swelled the gory tide;</l>
            <l>Not long, our stout old chieftain <ref id="ref8" n="8" rend="sc" target="note8" targOrder="U">2</ref> knew,</l>
            <l>Such odds his strength could bide.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>'T was in that hour his stern command</l>
            <l>Called to a martyr's grave			50</l>
            <l>The flower of his beloved land</l>
            <l>The nation's flag to save.</l>
            <l>By rivers of their fathers' gore</l>
            <l>His firstborn laurels grew,</l>
            <l>And well he deemed the sons would pour		55</l>
            <l>Their lives for glory too.</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note7" n="7" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref7">1. General Santa Anna commanded 21,000 Mexicans.</note>
          <note id="note8" n="8" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref8">2. Zachary Taylor.</note>
          <pb id="kent29" n="29"/>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Full many a norther's breath has swept</l>
            <l>O'er Angostura's plain - </l>
            <l>And long the pitying sky has wept</l>
            <l>Above its moldering slain.			60</l>
            <l>The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,</l>
            <l>Or shepherd's pensive lay,</l>
            <l>Alone awakes each sullen height</l>
            <l>That frowned o'er that dread fray.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground,  <ref id="ref9" n="9" rend="sc" target="note9" targOrder="U">1</ref> 		65</l>
            <l>Ye must not slumber there,</l>
            <l>Where stranger steps and tongues resound</l>
            <l>Along the heedless air.</l>
            <l>Your own proud land's heroic soil</l>
            <l>Shall be your fitter grave;			70</l>
            <l>She claims from War his richest spoil - </l>
            <l>The ashes of her brave.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,</l>
            <l>Far from the gory field;</l>
            <l>Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 			75</l>
            <l>On many a bloody shield;</l>
            <l>The sunlight of their native sky</l>
            <l>Smiles sadly on them here,</l>
            <l>And kindred eyes and hearts watch by</l>
            <l>The heroes' sepulcher.				80</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead,</l>
            <l>Dear as the blood ye gave;</l>
            <l>No impious footstep here shall tread</l>
            <l>The herbage of your grave;</l>
            <l>Nor shall your glory be forgot			85</l>
            <l>While Fame her record keeps,</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note9" n="9" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref9">1. “Kentucky” is an Indian word meaning “Dark and Bloody
Ground.”</note>
          <pb id="kent30" n="30"/>
          <lg>
            <l>Or Honor points the hallowed spot</l>
            <l>Where Valor proudly sleeps.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone</l>
            <l>In deathless song shall tell,			90</l>
            <l>When many a vanished age hath flown,</l>
            <l>The story how ye fell;</l>
            <l>Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,</l>
            <l>Nor Time's remorseless doom,</l>
            <l>Shall dim one ray of glory's light			95</l>
            <l>That gilds your glorious tomb.</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="poem">
          <head>THE LONG AGO  <ref id="ref10" n="10" rend="sc" target="note10" targOrder="U">1</ref> </head>
          <docAuthor>PHILO HENDERSON</docAuthor>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>OH! a wonderful stream is the river of Time,</l>
            <l>As it runs through the realm of tears,</l>
            <l>With a faultless rhythm, and musical rhyme,</l>
            <l>And a broader sweep, and a surge sublime,</l>
            <l>And blends with the ocean of years!			5</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow,</l>
            <l>And summers like buds between,</l>
            <l>And the ears in the sheaf, - so they come and they
		go</l>
            <l>On the river's breast with its ebb and flow,</l>
            <l>As it glides in the shadow and sheen!	10</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>There 's a magical Isle in the river of Time</l>
            <l>Where the softest of airs are playing;</l>
            <l>There's a cloudless sky, and a tropical clime,</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note10" n="10" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref10">1.  This poem is of disputed authorship, but is more commonly
attributed to Benjamin F. Taylor of Colgate University.</note>
          <pb id="kent31" n="31"/>
          <lg>
            <l>And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,</l>
            <l>And the Junes with the roses are staying.		15</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>And the name of this Isle is the Long Ago,</l>
            <l>And we bury our treasures there, - </l>
            <l>There are brows of beauty, and bosoms of snow,</l>
            <l>There are heaps of dust, - but we loved them so!</l>
            <l>There are trinkets, and tresses of hair. 	20</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>There are fragments of song that nobody sings,</l>
            <l>And a part of an infant's prayer;</l>
            <l>There 's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings,</l>
            <l>There are broken vows and pieces of rings,</l>
            <l>And the garments she used to wear.		25</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore</l>
            <l>By the mirage is lifted in air,</l>
            <l>And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar,</l>
            <l>Sweet voices heard in the days gone before,</l>
            <l>When the wind down the river is fair.	30</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Oh! remembered for aye be that blessed Isle,</l>
            <l>All the day of life till the night;</l>
            <l>When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,</l>
            <l>And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,</l>
            <l>May that “Greenwood” of soul be in sight!	35</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <pb id="kent32" n="32"/>
        <div1 type="poem">
          <head>LITTLE GIFFEN  <ref id="ref11" n="11" rend="sc" target="note11" targOrder="U">1</ref></head>
          <docAuthor>FRANCIS ORRAY TICKNOR</docAuthor>
          <argument>
            <p>A true story of a boy whom Dr. Ticknor nursed back to life at
Torch Hill, Georgia.</p>
          </argument>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>OUT of the focal and foremost fire,</l>
            <l>Out of the hospital walls as dire,</l>
            <l>Smitten of grapeshot and gangrene,</l>
            <l>Eighteenth battle and he sixteen -</l>
            <l>Specter such as you seldom see,			5</l>
            <l>Little Giffen of Tennessee.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>“Take him and welcome,” the surgeon said;</l>
            <l>“Not the doctor can help the dead!”</l>
            <l>So we took him and brought him where</l>
            <l>The balm was sweet in our summer air;		10</l>
            <l>And we laid him down on a wholesome bed;</l>
            <l>Utter Lazarus, heel to head!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>And we watched the war with abated breath,</l>
            <l>Skeleton boy against skeleton death!</l>
            <l>Months of torture, how many such!			15</l>
            <l>Weary weeks of the stick and crutch, - </l>
            <l>And still a glint in the steel-blue eye</l>
            <l>Told of a spirit that would n't die,</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>And did n't! Nay! more! in death's despite</l>
            <l>The crippled skeleton learned to write - 	20</l>
            <l>“Dear mother!” at first, of course, and then</l>
            <l>“Dear Captain!” inquiring about the men.</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note11" n="11" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref11">1.   From <hi rend="italics">Poems</hi> by Francis Orray Ticknor, collected and edited
by Michell Cutliff Ticknor and issued by the Neale Publishing
Company, New York.</note>
          <pb id="kent33" n="33"/>
          <lg>
            <l>Captain's answer: “Of eighty and five,</l>
            <l>Giffen and I are left alive.”</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>“Johnston <ref id="ref12" n="12" rend="sc" target="note12" targOrder="U">1</ref> pressed at the front,” they say; -        25</l>
            <l>Little Giffen was up and away!</l>
            <l>A tear, his first, as he bade good-by,</l>
            <l>Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye.</l>
            <l>“I'll write, if spared!” There was news of fight,</l>
            <l>But none of Giffen - he did not write!		30</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>I sometimes fancy that were I King</l>
            <l>Of the courtly Knights of Arthur's ring,</l>
            <l>With the voice of the minstrel in mine ear</l>
            <l>And the tender legend that trembles here,</l>
            <l>I'd give the best on his bended knee - 		35</l>
            <l>The whitest soul of my chivalry - </l>
            <l>For Little Giffen of Tennessee.</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="section">
          <head>MUSIC IN CAMP</head>
          <docAuthor>JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON</docAuthor>
          <argument>
            <p>The contending armies were encamped on opposite sides of the
Rappahannock River, near Fredericksburg, during the winter of
1862-63.</p>
          </argument>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Two armies covered hill and plain,</l>
            <l>Where Rappahannock's waters</l>
            <l>Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain</l>
            <l>Of battle's recent slaughters.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>The summer clouds lay pitched like tents		5</l>
            <l>In meads of heavenly azure;</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note12" n="12" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref12">1.  General Joseph E. Johnston, once commander of the Army
of Northern Virginia.</note>
          <pb id="kent34" n="34"/>
          <lg>
            <l>And each dread gun of the elements</l>
            <l>Slept in its embrasure.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>The breeze so softly blew it made</l>
            <l>No forest leaf to quiver,			10</l>
            <l>And the smoke of the random cannonade</l>
            <l>Rolled slowly from the river.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>And now, where circling hills looked down</l>
            <l>With cannon grimly planted,</l>
            <l>O'er listless camp and silent town			15</l>
            <l>The golden sunset slanted.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>When on the fervid air there came</l>
            <l>A strain - now rich, now tender;</l>
            <l>The music seemed itself aflame</l>
            <l>With day's departing splendor.		20</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>A Federal band, which, eve and morn,</l>
            <l>Played measures brave and nimble,</l>
            <l>Had just struck up, with flute and horn</l>
            <l>And lively clash of cymbal.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Down flocked the soldiers to the banks,		25</l>
            <l>Till, margined by its pebbles,</l>
            <l>One wooded shore was blue with “Yanks,”</l>
            <l>And one was gray with “Rebels.”</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Then all was still, and then the band,</l>
            <l>With movement light and tricksy,		30</l>
            <l>Made stream and forest, hill and strand,</l>
            <l>Reverberate with “Dixie.”</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>The conscious stream with burnished glow</l>
            <l>Went proudly o'er its pebbles,</l>
            <pb id="kent35" n="35"/>
            <l>But thrilled throughout its deepest flow		35</l>
            <l>With yelling of the Rebels.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Again a pause, and then again</l>
            <l>The trumpets pealed sonorous,</l>
            <l>And “Yankee Doodle” was the strain</l>
            <l>To which the shore gave chorus.		40</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>The laughing ripple shoreward flew,</l>
            <l>To kiss the shining pebbles;</l>
            <l>Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue</l>
            <l>Defiance to the Rebels.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>And yet once more the bugle sang			45</l>
            <l>Above the stormy riot;</l>
            <l>No shout upon the evening rang - </l>
            <l>There reigned a holy quiet.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood</l>
            <l>Poured over the glistening pebbles;		50</l>
            <l>All silent now the Yankees stood,</l>
            <l>And silent stood the Rebels.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>No unresponsive soul had heard</l>
            <l>That plaintive note's appealing,</l>
            <l>So deeply “Home, Sweet Home” had stirred		55</l>
            <l>The hidden founts of feeling.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees,</l>
            <l>As by the wand of fairy,</l>
            <l>The cottage 'neath the live oak trees,</l>
            <l>The cabin by the prairie.			60</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Or cold, or warm, his native skies</l>
            <l>Bend in their beauty o'er him;</l>
            <pb id="kent36" n="36"/>
            <l>Seen through the tear mist in his eyes,</l>
            <l>His loved ones stand before him.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>As fades the iris after rain 				65</l>
            <l>In April's tearful weather,</l>
            <l>The vision vanished, as the strain</l>
            <l>And daylight died together.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>But memory, waked by music's art,</l>
            <l>Expressed in simplest numbers,		70</l>
            <l>Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart,</l>
            <l>Made light the Rebel's slumbers.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>And fair the form of music shines,</l>
            <l>That bright celestial creature,</l>
            <l>Who still, 'mid war's embattled lines,		75</l>
            <l>Gave this one touch of Nature.</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="section">
          <head>CARCASSONNE  <ref id="ref13" n="13" rend="sc" target="note13" targOrder="U">1</ref> </head>
          <docAuthor>JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON</docAuthor>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>“I'M growing old, I've sixty years;</l>
            <l>I've labored all my life in vain:</l>
            <l>In all that time of hopes and fears</l>
            <l>I've failed my dearest wish to gain.</l>
            <l>I see full well that here below			5</l>
            <l>Bliss unalloyed there is for none.</l>
            <l>My prayer will ne'er fulfilment know</l>
            <l>I never have seen Carcassonne,</l>
            <l>I never have seen Carcassonne!</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note13" n="13" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref13">1. No finer translation of Gustav Nadaud's famous poem is
known.</note>
          <pb id="kent37" n="37"/>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>“You see the city from the hill,			10</l>
            <l>It lies beyond the mountains blue,</l>
            <l>And yet to reach it one must still</l>
            <l>Five long and weary leagues pursue,</l>
            <l>And to return as many more!</l>
            <l>Ah! had the vintage plenteous grown!	15</l>
            <l>The grape withheld its yellow store!</l>
            <l>I shall not look on Carcassonne,</l>
            <l>I shall not look on Carcassonne!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>“They tell me every day is there</l>
            <l>Not more or less than Sunday gay:		20</l>
            <l>In shining robes and garments fair</l>
            <l>The people walk upon their way.</l>
            <l>One gazes there on castle walls</l>
            <l>As grand as those of Babylon,</l>
            <l>A bishop and two generals!				25</l>
            <l>I do not know fair Carcassonne,</l>
            <l>I do not know fair Carcassonne!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>“The vicar's right; he says that we</l>
            <l>Are ever wayward, weak and blind,</l>
            <l>He tells us in his homily				30</l>
            <l>Ambition ruins all mankind;</l>
            <l>Yet could I there two days have spent</l>
            <l>While still the autumn sweetly shone,</l>
            <l>Ah me! I might have died content</l>
            <l>When I had looked on Carcassonne,		35</l>
            <l>When I had looked on Carcassonne!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>“Thy pardon, Father, I beseech,</l>
            <l>In this my prayer if I append:</l>
            <l>One something sees beyond his reach</l>
            <l>From childhood to his journey's end.	40</l>
            <pb id="kent38" n="38"/>
            <l>My wife, our little boy Aignon,</l>
            <l>Have traveled even to Narbonne;</l>
            <l>My grandchild has seen Perpignon,</l>
            <l>And I have not seen Carcassonne,</l>
            <l>And I have not seen Carcassonne!”		45</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>So crooned one day, close by Limoux,</l>
            <l>A peasant double-bent with age;</l>
            <l>“Rise up, my friend,” said I; “with you</l>
            <l>I'll go upon this pilgrimage.”</l>
            <l>We left next morning his abode,			50</l>
            <l>But (Heaven forgive him) halfway on,</l>
            <l>The old man died upon the road;</l>
            <l>He never gazed on Carcassonne,</l>
            <l>Each mortal has his Carcassonne!</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="section">
          <head>THE WINDOW-PANES AT BRANDON  <ref id="ref14" n="14" rend="sc" target="note14" targOrder="U">1</ref> </head>
          <docAuthor>JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON</docAuthor>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>As within the old mansion the holiday throng</l>
            <l>Reassembles in beauty and grace,</l>
            <l>And some eye looking out of the window by chance,</l>
            <l>These memorial records may trace -</l>
            <l>How the past, like a swift-coming haze from the sea,</l>
            <l>In an instant surrounds us once more,		6</l>
            <l>While the shadowy figures of those we have loved,</l>
            <l>All distinctly are seen on the shore!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Through the vista of years, stretching dimly away,</l>
            <l>We but look, and a vision behold . . . 		10</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note14" n="14" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref14">1. Upon the window-panes at Brandon, a well-known mansion
on the James River in Virginia, names of many guests were cut
with a diamond.</note>
          <pb id="kent39" n="39"/>
          <lg>
            <l>Like some magical picture the sunset reveals</l>
            <l>With its colors of crimson and gold,</l>
            <l>All suffused with the glow of the hearth's ruddy
	blaze,</l>
            <l>From beneath the gay “mistletoe bough,”</l>
            <l>There are faces that break into smiles as divinely	15</l>
            <l>As any that beam on us now.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>While the Old Year departing strides ghost-like along</l>
            <l>O'er the hills that are dark with the storm,</l>
            <l>To the New the brave beaker is filled to the brim,</l>
            <l>And the play of affection is warm:			20</l>
            <l>Look once more . . . as the garlanded Spring
	reappears,</l>
            <l>In her footsteps we welcome a train</l>
            <l>Of fair women, whose eyes are as bright as the gem</l>
            <l>That has cut their dear names on the pane.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>From the canvas of Vandyke or Kneller that hangs 	25</l>
            <l>On the old-fashioned wainscoted wall,</l>
            <l>Stately ladies, the favored of poets, look down</l>
            <l>On the guests and the revel and all;</l>
            <l>But their beauty, though wedded to eloquent verse,</l>
            <l>And though rendered immortal by Art,		30</l>
            <l>Yet outshines not the beauty that, breathing below,</l>
            <l>In a moment takes captive the heart.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Many winters have since frosted over these panes</l>
            <l>With the tracery work of the rime;</l>
            <l>Many Aprils have brought back the birds to the
	lawn 							35</l>
            <l>From some far-away tropical clime:</l>
            <l>But the guests of the season, alas! where are they?</l>
            <l>Some, the shores of the stranger have trod,</l>
            <pb id="kent40" n="40"/>
            <l>And some names have been long ago carved on the
	stone,</l>
            <l>Where they sweetly rest under the sod.		40</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>How uncertain the record! the hand of a child</l>
            <l>In its innocent sport, unawares,</l>
            <l>May, at any time, lucklessly shatter the pane,</l>
            <l>And thus cancel the story it bears;</l>
            <l>Still a portion, at least, shall uninjured remain	45</l>
            <l>Unto trustier tablets consigned,</l>
            <l>The fond names that survive in the memory of friends</l>
            <l>Who yet linger a season behind.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Recollect, O young soul, with ambition inspired!</l>
            <l>Let the moral be read as we pass;			50</l>
            <l>Recollect, the illusory tablets of fame</l>
            <l>Have been ever as brittle as glass;</l>
            <l>Oh! be not content with the name thus inscribed,</l>
            <l>For as well may you trace it in dust;</l>
            <l>But resolve to record it, where long it shall stand,	55</l>
            <l>In the hearts of the good and the just.</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="section">
          <head>BEFORE DEATH <ref id="ref15" n="15" rend="sc" target="note15" targOrder="U">1</ref> </head>
          <docAuthor>MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON</docAuthor>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <head>I</head>
            <l>How much would I care for it, could I know</l>
            <l>That when I am under the grass or snow,</l>
            <l>The ravelled garment of life's brief day</l>
            <l>Folded, and quietly laid away;</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note15" n="15" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref15">1. The three poems by Margaret Junkin Preston are printed by
courtesy of Little, Brown and Company.</note>
          <pb id="kent41" n="41"/>
          <lg>
            <l>The spirit let loose from mortal bars,			5</l>
            <l>And somewhere away among the stars:</l>
            <l>How much would you think it would matter then</l>
            <l>What praise was lavished upon me, when,</l>
            <l>Whatever might be its stint or store,</l>
            <l>It neither could help nor harm me more?			10</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <head>II</head>
            <l>If midst of my toil they had but thought</l>
            <l>To stretch a finger, I would have caught</l>
            <l>Gladly such aid, to bear me through</l>
            <l>Some bitter duty I had to do:</l>
            <l>And when it was done, had I but heard			15</l>
            <l>One breath of applause, one cheering word,</l>
            <l>One cry of “Courage!” amid the strife,</l>
            <l>So weighted for me, with death or life,</l>
            <l>How would it have nerved my soul to strain</l>
            <l>Through the whirl of the coming surge again!		20</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <head>III</head>
            <l>What use for the rope, if it be not flung</l>
            <l>Till the swimmer's grasp to the rock has clung?</l>
            <l>What help in a comrade's bugle-blast</l>
            <l>When the peril of Alpine heights is past?</l>
            <l>What need that the spurring pæan roll			25</l>
            <l>When the runner is safe beyond the goal?</l>
            <l>What worth is eulogy's blandest breath</l>
            <l>When whispered in ears that are hushed in death?</l>
            <l>No! no! if you have but a word of cheer,</l>
            <l>Speak it, while I am alive to hear! 30</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="section">
          <pb id="kent42" n="42"/>
          <head>THE SHADE OF THE TREES</head>
          <docAuthor>MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON</docAuthor>
          <argument>
            <p>“Let us pass over the river and rest under the shade of the trees ”
were the last words of Stonewall Jackson in 1863 Mrs. Preston was
General Jackson's sister-in-law.</p>
          </argument>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>WHAT are the thoughts that are stirring his breast?</l>
            <l>What is the mystical vision he sees?</l>
            <l>“Let us pass over the river and rest</l>
            <l>Under the shade of the trees.”</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Has he grown sick of his toils and his tasks?		5</l>
            <l>Sighs the worn spirit for respite or ease?</l>
            <l>Is it a moment's cool halt that he asks</l>
            <l>Under the shade of the trees?</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Is it the gurgle of waters whose flow</l>
            <l>Ofttime has come to him borne on the breeze, 	10</l>
            <l>Memory listens to, lapsing so low,</l>
            <l>Under the shade of the trees?</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Nay - though the rasp of the flesh was so sore,</l>
            <l>Faith, that had yearnings far keener than these,</l>
            <l>Saw the soft sheen of the Thitherward Shore, 		15</l>
            <l>Under the shade of the trees; - </l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Caught the high psalms of ecstatic delight,</l>
            <l>Heard the harps harping like soundings of seas,</l>
            <l>Watched earth's assoiled ones walking in white</l>
            <l>Under the shade of the trees.				20</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>O, was it strange he should pine for release,</l>
            <l>Touched to the soul with such transports as these,</l>
            <pb id="kent43" n="43"/>
            <l>He who so needed the balsam of peace,</l>
            <l>Under the shade of the trees?</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Yes, it was noblest for him - it was best		25</l>
            <l>(Questioning naught of our Father's decrees)</l>
            <l>There to pass over the river and rest</l>
            <l>Under the shade of the trees!</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="section">
          <head>GONE FORWARD</head>
          <docAuthor>MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON</docAuthor>
          <argument>
            <p>Among the broken sentences uttered by General Lee on his 
death-bed (1870) was this: “Let the tent be struck, the General has gone
forward.”</p>
          </argument>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>YES, “Let the tent be struck”: victorious morning</l>
            <l>Through every crevice flashes in a day</l>
            <l>Magnificent beyond all earth's adorning:</l>
            <l>The night is over; wherefore should he stay?</l>
            <l>And wherefore should our voices choke to say,	5</l>
            <l>“The General has gone forward”?</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Life's foughten field not once beheld surrender;</l>
            <l>But with superb endurance, present, past,</l>
            <l>Our pure commander, lofty, simple, tender,</l>
            <l>Through good, through ill, held his high purpose
	fast,							10</l>
            <l>Wearing his armor spotless, - till at last</l>
            <l>Death gave the final “<hi rend="italics">Forward!</hi>”</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>All hearts grew sudden palsied: Yet what said he</l>
            <l>Thus summoned? -  “<hi rend="italics">Let the tent be struck!</hi>” - 
 For when</l>
            <l>Did call of duty fail to find him ready			15</l>
            <pb id="kent44" n="44"/>
            <l>Nobly to do his work in sight of men,</l>
            <l>For God's and for his country's sake - and then</l>
            <l>To watch, wait, or go forward?</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>We will not weep, - we dare not! Such a story</l>
            <l>As his large life writes on the century's years,       20</l>
            <l>Should crowd our bosoms with a flush of glory,</l>
            <l>That manhood's type, supremest that appears</l>
            <l>To-day, <hi rend="italics">he </hi>shows the ages. Nay, no tears</l>
            <l>Because he has gone forward!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Gone forward? - whither? Where the marshalled
	legions,						25</l>
            <l>Christ's well-worn soldiers, from their conflicts
	cease, - </l>
            <l>Where Faith's true Red-Cross Knights repose in
	regions</l>
            <l>Thick-studded with the calm, white tents of
	peace, -</l>
            <l>Thither, right joyful to accept release,</l>
            <l>The General has gone forward!			30</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="section">
          <head>WASHINGTON - PATER PATRIÆ <ref id="ref16" n="16" rend="sc" target="note16" targOrder="U">1</ref></head>
          <docAuthor>JAMES BARRON HOPE</docAuthor>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>ACHILLES came from Homer's Jove-like brain,</l>
            <l>Pavilioned 'mid his ships where Thetis trod;</l>
            <l>But he whose image dominates this plain</l>
            <l>Came from the hand of God!</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note16" n="16" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref16">1.  This is an excerpt from “Arms and the Man,” a poem recited
on the One Hundredth Anniversary of the surrender of Lord
Cornwallis at Yorktown, Virginia. This and the poem following
are printed by courtesy of Mrs. Janie Hope Marr.</note>
          <pb id="kent45" n="45"/>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Yet of his life, which shall all time adorn,		5</l>
            <l>I dare not sing; to try the theme would be</l>
            <l>To drink as 't were that Scandinavian Horn</l>
            <l>Whose tip was in the Sea.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>I bow my head and go upon my ways,</l>
            <l>Who tells that story can but gild the gold - 	10</l>
            <l>Could I pile Alps on Apennines of praise</l>
            <l>The tale would not be told.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Not his the blade which lyric fables say</l>
            <l>Cleft Pyrenees from ridge to nether bed,</l>
            <l>But his the sword which cleared the Sacred Way		15</l>
            <l>For Freedom's feet to tread.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Not Cæsar's genius nor Napoleon's skill</l>
            <l>Gave him proud mast'ry o'er the trembling earth;</l>
            <l>But great in honesty, and sense and will -</l>
            <l>He was the “man of worth.”					20</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>He knew not North, nor South, nor West, nor East:</l>
            <l>Childless himself, Father of States he stood,</l>
            <l>Strong and sagacious as a Knight turned Priest,</l>
            <l>And vowed to deeds of good.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Compared with all Earth's heroes I may say		25</l>
            <l>He was, with even half his virtues hid,</l>
            <l>Greater in what his hand refrained than they</l>
            <l>Were great in what they did.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>And thus his image dominates all time,</l>
            <l>Uplifted like the everlasting dome			30</l>
            <l>Which rises in a miracle sublime</l>
            <l>Above eternal Rome.</l>
          </lg>
          <pb id="kent46" n="46"/>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>On Rome's once blooming plain where'er we stray</l>
            <l>That dome majestic rises on the view,</l>
            <l>Its Cross a-glow with every wandering ray			35</l>
            <l>That shines along the Blue.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>So his vast image shadows all the lands,</l>
            <l>So holds forever Man's adoring eye,</l>
            <l>And o'er the Union which he left it stands</l>
            <l>Our Cross against the sky!			40</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="section">
          <head>OUR ANGLO-SAXON TONGUE</head>
          <docAuthor>JAMES BARRON HOPE</docAuthor>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>GOOD is the Saxon speech! clear, short, and strong,</l>
            <l>Its clean-cut words, fit both for prayer and song;</l>
            <l>Good is this tongue for all the needs of life;</l>
            <l>Good for sweet words with friend, or child, or wife.</l>
            <l><hi rend="italics">Seax </hi>- short sword - and like a sword its sway	5</l>
            <l>Hews out a path 'mid all the forms of speech,</l>
            <l>For in itself it hath the power to teach</l>
            <l>Itself, while many tongues slow fade away.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>'Tis good for laws; for vows of youth and maid;</l>
            <l>Good for the preacher; or shrewd folk in trade;		10</l>
            <l>Good for sea-calls when loud the rush of spray;</l>
            <l>Good for war-cries where men meet hilt to hilt,</l>
            <l>And man's best blood like new-trod wine is spilt, - </l>
            <l>Good for all times, and good for what thou wilt!</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <pb id="kent47" n="47"/>
        <div1 type="section">
          <head>A COMMON THOUGHT  <ref id="ref17" n="17" rend="sc" target="note17" targOrder="U">1</ref></head>
          <docAuthor>HENRY TIMROD</docAuthor>
          <lg>
            <l>SOMEWHERE on this earthly planet</l>
            <l>In the dust of flowers to be,</l>
            <l>In the dewdrop, in the sunshine,</l>
            <l>Sleeps a solemn day for me.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>At this wakeful hour of midnight			5</l>
            <l>I behold it dawn in mist,</l>
            <l>And I hear a sound of sobbing</l>
            <l>Through the darkness - hist! oh, hist!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>In a dim and murky chamber,</l>
            <l>I am breathing life away;			10</l>
            <l>Some one draws a curtain softly,</l>
            <l>And I watch the broadening day.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>As it purples in the zenith,</l>
            <l>As it brightens on the lawn,</l>
            <l>There's a hush of death about me,       15</l>
            <l>And a whisper, “He is gone!”  <ref id="ref18" n="18" rend="sc" target="note18" targOrder="U">2</ref></l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note17" n="17" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref17">1.  The three following poems by Henry Timrod are printed by
courtesy of the B. F. Johnson Publishing Company.</note>
          <note id="note18" n="18" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref18">2.  A poem strangely prophetic of the manner of the poet's
death.</note>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="section">
          <pb id="kent48" n="48"/>
          <head>ODE</head>
          <docAuthor>HENRY TIMROD</docAuthor>
          <argument>
            <p>
              <hi rend="italics">Sung on the occasion of decorating the graves of the Confederate Dead,
at Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, South Carolina, 1867.</hi>
            </p>
          </argument>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <head>I</head>
            <l>SLEEP sweetly in your humble graves,</l>
            <l>Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause;</l>
            <l>Though yet no marble column craves</l>
            <l>The pilgrim here to pause.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <head>II</head>
            <l>In seeds of laurel in the earth			5</l>
            <l>The blossom of your fame is blown,</l>
            <l>And somewhere, waiting for its birth,</l>
            <l>The shaft is in the stone!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <head>III</head>
            <l>Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years</l>
            <l>Which keep in trust your storied tombs,	10</l>
            <l>Behold! your sisters bring their tears,</l>
            <l>And these memorial blooms.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <head>IV</head>
            <l>Small tributes! but your shades will smile</l>
            <l>More proudly on these wreaths to-day,</l>
            <l>Than when some cannon-moulded pile			15</l>
            <l>Shall overlook this bay.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <head>V</head>
            <l>Stoop, angels, hither from the skies!</l>
            <l>There is no holier spot of ground</l>
            <l>Than where defeated valor lies,</l>
            <l>By mourning beauty crowned!			20</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="section">
          <pb id="kent49" n="49"/>
          <head>THE COTTON BOLL</head>
          <docAuthor>HENRY TIMROD</docAuthor>
          <argument>
            <p>This poem was written during the war between the States.</p>
          </argument>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>WHITE I recline</l>
            <l>At ease beneath</l>
            <l>This immemorial pine,</l>
            <l>Small sphere!</l>
            <l>(By dusky fingers brought this morning here		5</l>
            <l>And shown with boastful smiles),</l>
            <l>I turn thy cloven sheath,</l>
            <l>Through which the soft white fibers peer,</l>
            <l>That, with their gossamer bands,</l>
            <l>Unite, like love, the sea-divided lands,			10</l>
            <l>And slowly, thread by thread,</l>
            <l>Draw forth the folded strands,</l>
            <l>Than which the trembling line,</l>
            <l>By whose frail help yon startled spider fled</l>
            <l>Down the tall spear grass from his swinging bed,	15</l>
            <l>Is scarce more fine;</l>
            <l>And as the tangled skein</l>
            <l>Unravels in my hands,</l>
            <l>Betwixt me and the noonday light,</l>
            <l>A veil seems lifted, and for miles and miles		20</l>
            <l>The landscape broadens on my sight,</l>
            <l>As, in the little boll, there lurked a spell</l>
            <l>Like that which, in the ocean shell,</l>
            <l>With mystic sound,</l>
            <l>Breaks down the narrow walls that hem us round,		25</l>
            <l>And turns some city lane</l>
            <l>Into the restless main,</l>
            <l>With all his capes and isles!</l>
            <pb id="kent50" n="50"/>
            <l>Yonder bird,</l>
            <l>Which floats, as if at rest,					30</l>
            <l>In those blue tracts above the thunder, where</l>
            <l>No vapors cloud the stainless air,</l>
            <l>And never sound is heard,</l>
            <l>Unless at such rare time</l>
            <l>When, from the City of the Blest,				35</l>
            <l>Rings down some golden chime,</l>
            <l>Sees not from his high place</l>
            <l>So vast a cirque of summer space</l>
            <l>As widens round me in one mighty field,</l>
            <l>Which, rimmed by seas and sands,				40</l>
            <l>Doth hail its earliest daylight in the beams</l>
            <l>Of gray Atlantic dawns;</l>
            <l>And, broad as realms made up of many lands,</l>
            <l>Is lost afar</l>
            <l>Behind the crimson hills and purple lawns			45</l>
            <l>Of sunset, among plains which roll their streams</l>
            <l>Against the Evening Star!</l>
            <l>And lo!</l>
            <l>To the remotest point of sight,</l>
            <l>Although I gaze upon no waste of snow,			50</l>
            <l>The endless field is white;</l>
            <l>And the whole landscape glows,</l>
            <l>For many a shining league away,</l>
            <l>With such accumulated light</l>
            <l>As Polar lands would flash beneath a tropic day!	55</l>
            <l>Nor lack there (for the vision grows,</l>
            <l>And the small charm within my hands - </l>
            <l>More potent even than the fabled one,</l>
            <l>Which oped whatever golden mystery</l>
            <l>Lay hid in fairy wood or magic vale,			60</l>
            <l>The curious ointment of the Arabian tale -</l>
            <l>Beyond all mortal sense</l>
            <pb id="kent51" n="51"/>
            <l>Doth stretch my sight's horizon, and I see,</l>
            <l>Beneath its simple influence,</l>
            <l>As if with Uriel's crown,					65</l>
            <l>I stood in some great temple of the Sun,</l>
            <l>And looked, as Uriel, down!)</l>
            <l>Nor lack there pastures rich and fields all green</l>
            <l>With all the common gifts of God,</l>
            <l>For temperate airs and torrid sheen				70</l>
            <l>Weave Edens of the sod;</l>
            <l>Through lands which look one sea of billowy gold</l>
            <l>Broad rivers wind their devious ways;</l>
            <l>A hundred isles in their embraces fold</l>
            <l>A hundred luminous bays;					75</l>
            <l>And through yon purple haze</l>
            <l>Vast mountains lift their plumèd peaks cloud-crowned;</l>
            <l>And, save where up their sides the plowman creeps,</l>
            <l>An unhewn forest girds them grandly round,</l>
            <l>In whose dark shades a future navy sleeps!		80</l>
            <l>Ye Stars, which, though unseen, yet with me gaze</l>
            <l>Upon this loveliest fragment of the earth!</l>
            <l>Thou Sun, that kindlest all thy gentlest rays</l>
            <l>Above it, as to light a favorite hearth!</l>
            <l>Ye Clouds, that in your temples in the west		85</l>
            <l>See nothing brighter than its humblest flowers!</l>
            <l>And you, ye Winds, that on the ocean's breast</l>
            <l>Are kissed to coolness ere ye reach its bowers!</l>
            <l>Bear witness with me in my song of praise,</l>
            <l>And tell the world that, since the world began,		90</l>
            <l>No fairer land hath fired a poet's lays,</l>
            <l>Or given a home to man!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>But these are charms already widely blown!</l>
            <l>His be the meed whose pencil's trace</l>
            <l>Hath touched our very swamps with grace,			95</l>
            <pb id="kent52" n="52"/>
            <l>And round whose tuneful way</l>
            <l>All Southern laurels bloom;</l>
            <l>The Poet of “The Woodlands,”
<ref id="ref19" n="19" rend="sc" target="note19" targOrder="U">1</ref> unto whom</l>
            <l>Alike are known</l>
            <l>The flute's low breathing and the trumpet's tone, 	100</l>
            <l>And the soft west wind's sighs;</l>
            <l>But who shall utter all the debt,</l>
            <l>O land wherein all powers are met</l>
            <l>That bind a people's heart,</l>
            <l>The world doth owe thee at this day,			105</l>
            <l>And which it never can repay,</l>
            <l>Yet scarcely deigns to own!</l>
            <l>Where sleeps the poet who shall fitly sing</l>
            <l>The source wherefrom doth spring</l>
            <l>That mighty commerce which, confined			110</l>
            <l>To the mean channels of no selfish mart,</l>
            <l>Goes out to every shore</l>
            <l>Of this broad earth, and throngs the sea with ships</l>
            <l>That bear no thunders; hushes hungry lips</l>
            <l>In alien lands;							115</l>
            <l>Joins with a delicate web remotest strands;</l>
            <l>And gladdening rich and poor,</l>
            <l>Doth gild Parisian domes,</l>
            <l>Or feed the cottage smoke of English homes,</l>
            <l>And only bounds its blessings by mankind?			120</l>
            <l>In offices like these thy mission lies,</l>
            <l>My Country! and it shall not end</l>
            <l>As long as rain shall fall and Heaven bend</l>
            <l>In blue above thee. Though thy foes be hard</l>
            <l>And cruel as their weapons, it shall guard		125</l>
            <l>Thy hearthstones as a bulwark; make thee great</l>
            <l>In white and bloodless state;</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note19" n="19" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref19">1.  William Gilmore Simms. His home near Charleston, South
Carolina, was called “The Woodlands.”</note>
          <pb id="kent53" n="53"/>
          <lg>
            <l>And haply, as the years increase - </l>
            <l>Still working through its humbler reach</l>
            <l>With that large wisdom which the ages teach - 		130</l>
            <l>Revive the half-dead dream of universal peace!</l>
            <l>As men who labor in that mine</l>
            <l>Of Cornwall, hollowed out beneath the bed</l>
            <l>Of ocean, when a storm rolls overhead,</l>
            <l>Hear the dull booming of the world of brine		135</l>
            <l>Above them, and a mighty muffled roar</l>
            <l>Of winds and waters, yet toil calmly on,</l>
            <l>And split the rock, and pile the massive ore,</l>
            <l>Or carve a niche or shape the archèd roof;</l>
            <l>So I, as calmly, weave my woof				140</l>
            <l>Of song, chanting the days to come,</l>
            <l>Unsilenced, though the quiet summer air</l>
            <l>Stirs with the bruit of battles, and each dawn</l>
            <l>Wakes from its starry silence to the hum</l>
            <l>Of many gathering armies. Still,				145</l>
            <l>In that we sometimes hear,</l>
            <l>Upon the Northern winds, the voice of woe</l>
            <l>Not wholly drowned in triumph, though I know</l>
            <l>The end must crown us, and a few brief years</l>
            <l>Dry all our tears,						150</l>
            <l>I may not sing too gladly. To thy will</l>
            <l>Resigned, O Lord! we cannot all forget</l>
            <l>That there is much even Victory must regret.</l>
            <l>And, therefore, not too long</l>
            <l>From the great burthen of our country's wrong		155</l>
            <l>Delay our just release!</l>
            <l>And, if it may be, save</l>
            <l>These sacred fields of peace</l>
            <l>From stain of patriot or of hostile blood!</l>
            <l>O, help us, Lord! to roll the crimson flood		160</l>
            <l>Back on its course, and while our banners wing</l>
            <pb id="kent54" n="54"/>
            <l>Northward, strike with us! till the Goth shall cling</l>
            <l>To his own blasted altar stones, and crave</l>
            <l>Mercy; and we shall grant it, and dictate</l>
            <l>The lenient future of his fate				165</l>
            <l>There, where some rotting ships and crumbling quays</l>
            <l>Shall one day mark the Port which ruled the Western
	seas. <ref id="ref20" n="20" rend="sc" target="note20" targOrder="U">1</ref></l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="section">
          <head>MY STUDY  <ref id="ref21" n="21" rend="sc" target="note21" targOrder="U">2</ref></head>
          <docAuthor>PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE</docAuthor>
          <argument>
            <p>Written before his mansion in Charleston, South Carolina, was
destroyed by fire. It was published in 1859.</p>
          </argument>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>THIS is my world! within these narrow walls,</l>
            <l>I own a princely service. The hot care</l>
            <l>And tumult of our frenzied life are here</l>
            <l>But as a ghost and echo; what befalls</l>
            <l>In the far mart to me is less than naught;		5</l>
            <l>I walk the fields of quiet Arcadies,</l>
            <l>And wander by the brink of hoary seas,</l>
            <l>Calmed to the tendance of untroubled thought;</l>
            <l>Or if a livelier humor should enhance</l>
            <l>The slow-time pulse, 't is not for present strife,	          10</l>
            <l>The sordid zeal with which our age is rife,</l>
            <l>Its mammon conflicts crowned by fraud or chance,</l>
            <l>But gleamings of the lost, heroic life,</l>
            <l>Flashed through the gorgeous vistas of romance.</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note20" n="20" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref20">1.  New York, considered by many Southerners at that time as
an unjust competitor for trade.</note>
          <note id="note21" n="21" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref21">2.  The poems by Paul Hamilton Hayne are printed by courtesy
of William H. Hayne, the son of the author.</note>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="section">
          <pb id="kent55" n="55"/>
          <head>THE PINE'S MYSTERY</head>
          <docAuthor>PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE</docAuthor>
          <argument>
            <p>“Copse Hill,” Hayne's Georgia home after his home in Charleston
was sacrificed to war, was surrounded by pines.</p>
          </argument>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <head>I</head>
            <l>LISTEN! the sombre foliage of the Pine,</l>
            <l>A swart Gitana  <ref id="ref22" n="22" rend="sc" target="note22" targOrder="U">1</ref> of the woodland trees,</l>
            <l>Is answering what we may but half divine</l>
            <l>To those soft whispers of the twilight breeze!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <head>II</head>
            <l>Passion and mystery murmur through the leaves, 		5</l>
            <l>Passion and mystery, touched by deathless pain.</l>
            <l>Whose monotone of long, low anguish grieves</l>
            <l>For something lost that shall not live again!</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="section">
          <head>THE WILL AND THE WING</head>
          <docAuthor>PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE</docAuthor>
          <lg>
            <l>To have the will to soar, but not the wings,</l>
            <l>Eyes fixed forever on a starry height,</l>
            <l>Whence stately shapes of grand imaginings</l>
            <l>Flash down the splendors of imperial light;</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>And yet to lack the charm that makes them ours,		5</l>
            <l>The obedient vassals of that conquering spell,</l>
            <l>Whose omnipresent and ethereal powers</l>
            <l>Encircle Heaven, nor fear to enter Hell;</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>This is the doom of Tantalus - the thirst</l>
            <l>For beauty's balmy fount to quench the fires	10</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note22" n="22" rend="sc" anchored="yes" target="ref22">1.  Gitana, a gypsy dancer.</note>
          <pb id="kent56" n="56"/>
          <lg>
            <l>Of the wild passion that our souls have nurst</l>
            <l>In hopeless promptings - unfulfilled desires.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Yet would I rather in the outward state</l>
            <l>Of Song's immortal temple lay me down,</l>
            <l>A beggar basking by that radiant gate,			15</l>
            <l>Than bend beneath the haughtiest empire's crown!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>For sometimes, through the bars, my ravished eyes</l>
            <l>Have caught brief glimpses of a life divine,</l>
            <l>And seen afar, mysterious rapture rise</l>
            <l>Beyond the veil that guards the inmost shrine.	              20</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="section">
          <head>A DREAM OF THE SOUTH WINDS</head>
          <docAuthor>PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE</docAuthor>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>O FRESH, how fresh and fair</l>
            <l>Through the crystal gulfs of air,</l>
            <l>The fairy South Wind floateth on her subtle wings of
	balm!</l>
            <l>And the green earth lapped in bliss,</l>
            <l>To the magic of her kiss 			5</l>
            <l>Seems yearning upward fondly through the golden-
	crested calm!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>From the distant Tropic strand,</l>
            <l>Where the billows, bright and bland,</l>
            <l>Go creeping, curling round the palms with sweet,
	faint under-tune,</l>
            <l>From its fields of purpling flowers		10</l>
            <l>Still wet with fragrant showers,</l>
            <l>The happy South Wind lingering sweeps the royal
	blooms of June.</l>
          </lg>
          <pb id="kent57" n="57"/>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>All heavenly fancies rise</l>
            <l>On the perfume of her sighs,</l>
            <l>Which steep the inmost spirit in a languor rare and
	fine,								15</l>
            <l>And a peace more pure than sleep's</l>
            <l>Unto dim, half-conscious deeps,</l>
            <l>Transports me, lulled and dreaming, on its twilight
	tides divine.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Those dreams! ah me! the splendor,</l>
            <l>So mystical and tender,				20</l>
            <l>Wherewith like soft heat-lightnings they gird their
	meaning round,</l>
            <l>And those waters, calling, calling,</l>
            <l>With a nameless charm enthralling,</l>
            <l>Like the ghost of music melting on a rainbow spray
	of sound!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Touch, touch me not, nor wake me,		25</l>
            <l>Lest grosser thoughts o'ertake me,</l>
            <l>From earth receding faintly with her dreary din and
	jars -</l>
            <l>What viewless arms caress me?</l>
            <l>What whispered voices bless me,</l>
            <l>With welcomes dropping dewlike from the weird and
	wondrous stars? 30</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Alas! dim, dim, and dimmer</l>
            <l>Grows the preternatural glimmer</l>
            <l>Of that trance the South Wind brought me on her
	subtle wings of balm,</l>
            <l>For behold! its spirit flieth,</l>
            <l>And its fairy murmur dieth,			35</l>
            <l>And the silence closing round me is a dull and
	soulless calm!</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="section">
          <pb id="kent58" n="58"/>
          <head>IN HARBOR <ref id="ref23" n="23" rend="sc" target="note23" targOrder="U">1</ref></head>
          <docAuthor>PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE</docAuthor>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>I THINK it is over, over,</l>
            <l>I think it is over at last,</l>
            <l>Voices of foeman and lover,</l>
            <l>The sweet and the bitter have passed:</l>
            <l>Life, like a tempest of ocean					5</l>
            <l>Hath outblown its ultimate blast;</l>
            <l>There's but a faint sobbing seaward</l>
            <l>While the calm of the tide deepens leeward,</l>
            <l>And behold! like the welcoming quiver</l>
            <l>Of heart-pulses throbbed thro' the river,			10</l>
            <l>Those lights in the harbor at last,</l>
            <l>The heavenly harbor at last!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>I feel it is over, over!</l>
            <l>For the winds and the waters surcease;</l>
            <l>Ah! - few were the days of the rover			15</l>
            <l>That smiled in the beauty of peace!</l>
            <l>And distant and dim was the omen</l>
            <l>That hinted redress or release:</l>
            <l>From the ravage of life, and its riot</l>
            <l>What marvel I yearn for the quiet				20</l>
            <l>Which bides in the harbor at last?</l>
            <l>For the lights with their welcoming quiver</l>
            <l>That throbbed through the sanctified river</l>
            <l>Which girdles the harbor at last,</l>
            <l>This heavenly harbor at last?				25</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>I <hi rend="italics">know</hi> it is over, over,</l>
            <l>I know it is over at last!</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note23" n="23" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref23">1.  Among his very latest poems.</note>
          <pb id="kent59" n="59"/>
          <lg>
            <l>Down sail! the sheathed anchor uncover,</l>
            <l>For the stress of the voyage has passed:</l>
            <l>Life, like a tempest of ocean					30</l>
            <l>Hath outbreathed its ultimate blast;</l>
            <l>There's but a faint sobbing seaward;</l>
            <l>While the calm of the tide deepens leeward;</l>
            <l>And behold! like the welcoming quiver</l>
            <l>Of heart-pulses throbbed thro' the river,			35</l>
            <l>Those lights in the harbor at last,</l>
            <l>The heavenly harbor at last!</l>
          </lg>
        </div1>
        <div1 type="poem">
          <head>MARYLAND, MY MARYLAND  <ref id="ref24" n="24" rend="sc" target="note24" targOrder="U">1</ref></head>
          <docAuthor>JAMES RYDER RANDALL</docAuthor>
          <argument>
            <p>Written in Louisiana when the author heard of the clash between
the Massachusetts troops and the citizens of his native city, Baltimore,
April 19, 1861. The poem was written on April 23, 1861.</p>
          </argument>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>THE despot's heel is on thy shore,</l>
            <l>Maryland!</l>
            <l>His torch is at thy temple door,</l>
            <l>Maryland!</l>
            <l>Avenge the patriotic gore				5</l>
            <l>That flecked the streets of Baltimore,</l>
            <l>And be the battle queen of yore,</l>
            <l>Maryland, my Maryland!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>Hark to an exiled son's appeal,</l>
            <l>Maryland!					10</l>
            <l>My Mother State, to thee I kneel,</l>
            <l>Maryland!</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note24" n="24" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref24">1. For a full account of this poem, see Introduction to <hi rend="italics">Poems
of James Ryder Randall</hi>, edited by Matthew Page Andrews.</note>
          <pb id="kent60" n="60"/>
          <lg>
            <l>For life and death, for woe and weal,</l>
            <l>Thy peerless chivalry reveal,</l>
            <l>And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,		15</l>
            <l>Maryland, my Maryland!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Thou wilt not cower in the dust,</l>
            <l>Maryland!</l>
            <l>Thy beaming sword shall never rust,</l>
            <l>Maryland!					20</l>
            <l>Remember Carroll's
<ref id="ref25" n="25" rend="sc" target="note25" targOrder="U">1</ref> sacred trust,</l>
            <l>Remember Howard's
<ref id="ref26" n="26" rend="sc" target="note26" targOrder="U">2</ref> warlike thrust,</l>
            <l>And all thy slumberers with the just,</l>
            <l>Maryland, my Maryland!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="stanza">
            <l>Come! 't is the red dawn of the day,			25</l>
            <l>Maryland!</l>
            <l>Come with thy panoplied array,</l>
            <l>Maryland!</l>
            <l>With Ringgold's <ref id="ref27" n="27" rend="sc" target="note27" targOrder="U">3</ref> spirit for the fray,</l>
            <l>With Watson's <ref id="ref28" n="28" rend="sc" target="note28" targOrder="U">4</ref> blood at Monterey,			30</l>
            <l>With fearless Lowe
<ref id="ref29" n="29" rend="sc" target="note29" targOrder="U">5</ref> and dashing May,
<ref id="ref30" n="30" rend="sc" target="note30" targOrder="U">6</ref></l>
            <l>Maryland, my Maryland!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg>
            <l>Dear Mother! burst the tyrant's chain,</l>
            <l>Maryland!</l>
            <l>Virginia should not call in vain,			35</l>
            <l>Maryland!</l>
          </lg>
          <note id="note25" n="25" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref25">1. Carroll was a delegate to the Continental Congress that
framed the Declaration of Independence.</note>
          <note id="note26" n="26" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref26">2.  Howard, Lieutenant-Colonel at the battle of Cowpens.</note>
          <note id="note27" n="27" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref27">3.  Ringgold, killed at Palo Alto in the Mexican War.</note>
          <note id="note28" n="28" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref28">4.  Watson, Colonel in the Mexican War and killed at Monterey.</note>
          <note id="note29" n="29" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref29">5.  Lowe, a soldier in the Mexican War and later Governor of
Maryland.</note>
          <note id="note30" n="30" rend="sc" place="foot" anchored="yes" target="ref30">6.  May, a leader at the battle of Monterey.</note>
          <pb id="kent61" n="61"/>
          <lg>
            <l>She meet