’Midst the turmoil and the strife
      Of the war-tide’s rushing,
    Every heart its separate woe
      In its depths is hushing. 
    Who has time for tears, when blood
      All the land is steeping? 
    —­In our poverty we grudge
      Even the waste of weeping! 
    But when quiet comes again,
      And the bands, long broken,
    Gather round the hearth, and breathe
      Names now seldom spoken—­
    Then we’ll miss the precious links—­
      Mourn the empty places—­
    Read the hopeless “Nevermore,”
      In each other’s faces!

    —­Oh! what aching, anguish’d hearts
      O’er lone graves will hover,
    With a new, fresh sense of pain,
      When the war is over!

V.

    Stern endurance, bitterer still,
      Sharp with self-denial,
    Fraught with loftier sacrifice,
      Fuller far of trial—­
    Strews our flinty path of thorns—­
      Marks our bloody story—­
    Fits us for the victor’s palm—­
      Weaves our robe of glory! 
    Shall we faint with God above,
      And His strong arm under—­
    And the cold world gazing on,
      In a maze of wonder? 
    No! with more resistless march,
      More resolved endeavor,
    Press we onward—­struggle still,
      Fight and win forever!

    —­Holy peace will heal all ills,
      Joy all losses cover,
    Raptures rend our Southern skies,
      When the war is over!

VIRGINIA CAPTA.

APRIL 9TH, 1865.

I.

    Unconquered captive!—­close thine eye,
      And draw the ashen sackcloth o’er,
      And in thy speechless woe deplore
    The fate that would not let thee die!

II.

    The arm that wore the shield, strip bare;
      The hand that held the martial rein,
      And hurled the spear on many a plain—­
    Stretch—­till they clasp the shackles there!

III.

    The foot that once could crush the crown,
      Must drag the fetters, till it bleed
      Beneath their weight:—­thou dost not need
    It now, to tread the tyrant down.

IV.

    Thou thought’st him vanquish’d—­boastful trust! 
      —­His lance, in twain—­his sword, a wreck—­
      But with his heel upon thy neck,
    He holds thee prostrate in the dust!

V.

    Bend though thou must, beneath his will,
      Let not one abject moan have place;
      But with majestic, silent grace,
    Maintain thy regal bearing still.

VI.