 | War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. |  |
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MARGARET J. PRESTON.
Was born in Philadelphia, Pa., and is now residing in Lexington,
Virginia. She is the daughter of Rev. Dr. Junkin, at
one time President of Washington College, Lexington, Va. In
1857 she married Col. I. T. L. Preston, professor in the Virginia
Military Institute. Mrs. Preston stands at the head of the
female poets of the South. Her "Beechenbrook," a volume of
sixty-five pages, written in one week, is the best narrative poem
of the war. A number of volumes of her poems and sonnets
have been published since the war. Her poetry is remarkable
for artistic finish, grace and tenderness.
HYMN TO THE NATIONAL FLAG.
Float aloft, thou stainless banner!
Azure cross and field of light;
Be thy brilliant stars the symbol
Of the pure and true and right.
Shelter freedom's holy cause—
Liberty and sacred laws,
Guard the youngest of the nations—
Keep her virgin honor bright.
Azure cross and field of light;
Be thy brilliant stars the symbol
Of the pure and true and right.
Shelter freedom's holy cause—
Liberty and sacred laws,
Guard the youngest of the nations—
Keep her virgin honor bright.
From Virginia's storied border,
Down to Tampa's farthest shore—
From the blue Atlantic's clashings
To the Rio Grande's roar—
Over many a crimson plain,
Where our martyred ones lie slain—
Fling abroad thy blessed shelter,
Stream, and mount, and valley o'er.
Down to Tampa's farthest shore—
From the blue Atlantic's clashings
To the Rio Grande's roar—
Over many a crimson plain,
Where our martyred ones lie slain—
Fling abroad thy blessed shelter,
Stream, and mount, and valley o'er.
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In thy cross of heavenly azure,
Has our faith its emblem high;
In thy field of white, the hallowed
Truth for which we'll dare and die;
In thy red, the patriot blood—
Ah! the consecrated flood;
Lift thyself, resistless banner!
Ever fill our Southern sky!
Has our faith its emblem high;
In thy field of white, the hallowed
Truth for which we'll dare and die;
In thy red, the patriot blood—
Ah! the consecrated flood;
Lift thyself, resistless banner!
Ever fill our Southern sky!
Flash with living lightning motion,
In the sight of all the brave!
Tell the price at which we purchased
Room and right for thee to wave
Freely in our God's free air,
Pure and proud and stainless fair,
Banner of the youngest nation—
Banner we would die to save!
In the sight of all the brave!
Tell the price at which we purchased
Room and right for thee to wave
Freely in our God's free air,
Pure and proud and stainless fair,
Banner of the youngest nation—
Banner we would die to save!
Strike Thou for us, King of armies!
Grant us room in Thy broad world!
Loosen all the despot's fetters,
Back be all his legions hurled!
Give us peace and liberty,
Let the land we love be free—
Then, oh! bright and stainless banner!
Never shall thy folds be furled!
Grant us room in Thy broad world!
Loosen all the despot's fetters,
Back be all his legions hurled!
Give us peace and liberty,
Let the land we love be free—
Then, oh! bright and stainless banner!
Never shall thy folds be furled!
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DIRGE FOR ASHBY.
Heard ye that thrilling word—
Accent of dread—
Fall, like a thunder-bolt,
Bowing each head?
Over the battle dun,
Over each booming gun—
Ashby, our bravest one!!
Ashby is dead!
Accent of dread—
Fall, like a thunder-bolt,
Bowing each head?
Over the battle dun,
Over each booming gun—
Ashby, our bravest one!!
Ashby is dead!
Saw ye the veterans—
Hearts that had known
Never a quail of fear,
Never a groan—
Sob, though the fight they win,
Tears their stern eyes within—
Ashby, our Paladin,
Ashby is dead!
Hearts that had known
Never a quail of fear,
Never a groan—
Sob, though the fight they win,
Tears their stern eyes within—
Ashby, our Paladin,
Ashby is dead!
Dash, dash the tear away—
Crush down the pain!
Dulce et decus be
Fittest refrain!
Why should the dreary pall
'Round him be flung at all?
Did not our hero fall,
Gallantly slain?
Crush down the pain!
Dulce et decus be
Fittest refrain!
Why should the dreary pall
'Round him be flung at all?
Did not our hero fall,
Gallantly slain?
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Catch the last words of cheer
Dropt from his tongue;
Over the battle's din
Let them be rung!
"Follow me! follow me!"
Soldier, oh! could there be
Pæan or dirge for thee,
Loftier sung?
Dropt from his tongue;
Over the battle's din
Let them be rung!
"Follow me! follow me!"
Soldier, oh! could there be
Pæan or dirge for thee,
Loftier sung?
Bold as the lion's heart—
D aunties sly brave—
Knightly as knightliest
Bayard might crave;
Sweet with all Sydney's grace,
Tender as Hampden's face,
Who now shall fill the space,
Void by his grave?
D aunties sly brave—
Knightly as knightliest
Bayard might crave;
Sweet with all Sydney's grace,
Tender as Hampden's face,
Who now shall fill the space,
Void by his grave?
'Tis not one broken heart,
Wild with dismay—
Crazed in her agony,
Weeps o'er his clay!
Ah! from a thousand eyes
Flow the pure tears that rise—
Widowed Virginia lies
Stricken to-day!
Wild with dismay—
Crazed in her agony,
Weeps o'er his clay!
Ah! from a thousand eyes
Flow the pure tears that rise—
Widowed Virginia lies
Stricken to-day!
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Yet, charge as gallantly,
Ye, whom he led!
Jackson, the victor, still
Leads at your head!
Heroes! be battle done
Bravelier, every one
Nerved by the thought alone—
Ashby is dead!
Ye, whom he led!
Jackson, the victor, still
Leads at your head!
Heroes! be battle done
Bravelier, every one
Nerved by the thought alone—
Ashby is dead!
| War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. | |