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THE SOUTH; |
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OR, I LOVE THEE THE MORE.
My heart in its sadness turns fondly to thee, Dear land where our lov'd ones fought hard to be free; I loved thee when struggling-, and bleeding and sore, But now thou art conquered, I love thee the more!
Gallant South ! when the noble, the gifted, the brave, Dashed onward to battle, like wave after wave, Determin'd to die for the land they adore, Though vain were their efforts, I love thee the more.
Bright South! though the winter is closing around, And dead leaves of autumn now carpet the ground, Thy beauties of woodland, of river and shore, Still charm the beholder, I love thee the more.
Dear South! though thy beautiful forests and hills, Thy emerald valleys and silvery rills, Are subject to strangers—not free as of yore— Thus changed, and in sorrow, I love thee the more.
Sweet South! lovely land of beautiful flowers, Though cool now the zephyrs, and faded thy bowers, Oh, soon shall the springtime thy beauties restore, And bloom o'er our lost ones—I love thee the more. |
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