Though wrapped in the weeds of her widowhood, pale,—­
    Though life seems all sunless and dim through the veil
    That drearily shadows her sorrowful brow,—­
    Is the cause of her country less dear to her now? 
    Does the patriot-flame in her heart cease to stir,—­
    Does she feel that the conflict is over for her? 
    Because the red war-tide has deluged her o’er,—­
    Has wreaked its wild wrath, and can harm her no more,—­
    Does she stand, self-absorbed, on the wreck she has braved,
    Nor care if her country be lost or be saved?

    By her pride in the soil that has given her birth—­
    By her tenderest memories garnered on earth—­
    By the legacy blood-bought and precious, which she
    Would leave to her children—­the right to be free,—­
    By the altar where once rose the hymn and the prayer;
    By the home that lies scarred in its solitude there,—­
    By the pangs she has suffered,—­the ills she has borne,—­
    By the desolate exile through which she must mourn,—­
    By the struggles that hallow this fair Southern sod,
    By the vows she has breathed in the ear of her God,—­
    By the blood of the heart that she worshipped,—­the life
    That enfolded her own; by her love, as his wife;
    By his death on the battle-field, gallantly brave,—­
    By the shadow that ever will wrap her—­his grave—­
    By the faith she reposes, oh!  Father! in Thee,
    She claims that her glorious South MUST be free!

VIRGINIA.

A SONNET.

    Grandly thou fillest the world’s eye to-day,
      My proud Virginia!  When the gage was thrown—­
      The deadly gage of battle—­thou, alone,
    Strong in thy self-control, didst stoop to lay
    The olive-branch thereon, and calmly pray
      We might have peace, the rather.  When the foe
      Turned scornfully upon thee,—­bade thee go,
    And whistled up his war-hounds, then—­the way
      Of duty full before thee,—­thou didst spring
      Into the centre of the martial ring—­
    Thy brave blood boiling, and thy glorious eye,
      Shot with heroic fire, and swear to claim
      Sublimest victory in God’s own name,—­
    Or, wrapped in robes of martyrdom,—­to die!

JACKSON.

A SONNET.

    Thank God for such a Hero!—­Fearless hold
      His diamond character beneath the sun,
      And brighter scintillations, one by one,
    Come flashing from it.  Never knight of old
    Wore on serener brow, so calm, yet bold,
      Diviner courage:  never martyr knew
      Trust more sublime,—­nor patriot, zeal more true,—­
    Nor saint, self-abnegation of a mould
      Touched with profounder beauty.  All the rare,
    Clear, starry points of light, that gave his soul
      Such lambent lustre, owned but one sole aim,—­
      Not for himself, nor yet his country’s fame,
    These glories shone:  he kept the clustered whole
      A jewel for the crown that Christ shall wear!