DIRGE FOR ASHBY.

    Heard ye that thrilling word—­
      Accent of dread—­
    Flash like a thunderbolt,
      Bowing each head—­
    Crash through the battle dun,
    Over the 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 ’mid the fight they win,
    —­Tears their stern eyes within,—­
    “Ashby, our Paladin,
      Ashby is gone!”

    Dash,—­dash the tear away—­
      Crush down the pain!
    “Dulce et decus,” be
      Fittest refrain! 
    Why should the dreary pall
    Round him be flung at all? 
    Did not our hero fall
      Gallantly slain?

    Catch the last word of cheer
      Dropt from his tongue;
    Over the volley’s din,
      Loud be it rung—­
    “Follow me! follow me!”—­
    Soldier, oh! could there be
    Paean or dirge for thee,
      Loftier sung!

    Bold as the Lion-heart,
      Dauntless and brave;
    Knightly as knightliest
      Bayard could crave;
    Sweet with all Sidney’s grace—­
    Tender as Hampden’s face—­
    Who—­who shall fill the space
      Void by his grave?

    ’Tis not one broken heart,
      Wild with dismay;
    Crazed with her agony,
      Weeps o’er his clay: 
    Ah! from a thousand eyes
    Flow the pure tears that rise;
    Widowed Virginia lies
      Stricken to-day!

    Yet—­though that thrilling word—­
      Accent of dread—­
    Falls like a thunderbolt,
      Bowing each head—­
    Heroes! be battle done
    Bravelier every one,
    Nerved by the thought alone—­
      Ashby is dead!

STONEWALL JACKSON’S GRAVE.[A]

    A simple, sodded mound of earth,
      Without a line above it;
    With only daily votive flowers
      To prove that any love it: 
    The token flag that silently
      Each breeze’s visit numbers,
    Alone keeps martial ward above
      The hero’s dreamless slumbers.

    No name?—­no record?  Ask the world;
      The world has read his story—­
    If all its annals can unfold
      A prouder tale of glory:—­
    If ever merely human life
      Hath taught diviner moral,—­
    If ever round a worthier brow
      Was twined a purer laurel!

    A twelvemonth only, since his sword
      Went flashing through the battle—­
    A twelvemonth only, since his ear
      Heard war’s last deadly rattle—­
    And yet, have countless pilgrim-feet
      The pilgrim’s guerdon paid him,
    And weeping women come to see
      The place where they have laid him.