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The tears are hot upon my face, when thinking what hlack
fate befell The only sister of our race—a thing- too horrible to tell! They say that ere her senses fled, she rescue of her brothers
cried; Then freely bowed her stricken head, too poor to live thus—
so she died.
Two of those brothers heard no plea; with their proud hearts forever still—
John shrouded by the Tennessee, and Arthur there at Malvern Hill;
But I have heard it everywhere, vibrating- like a passing-knell;.
'Tis as perpetual as the air, and solemn as a funeral bell.
By scorched lagoon and murky swamp, my wrath was never
in the lurch; I've killed the picket in his camp, and many a pilot on his
perch ; With steady rifle, sharpen'd brand, a week ago upon my
steed, With Forrest and his warrior band, I made the hell-hounds
writhe and bleed.
You should have seen our leader go upon the battle's burning-marge,
Sweeping like falcon on the foe, heading the Gray line's iron charge!
All outcasts from our ruined marts, we heard th' undying-serpent hiss,
And in the desert of our hearts the fatal spell of Nemesis. |
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