But down on the Southern battle-plain,
Who pillows the sick and sore?
And who weeps over the nameless slain
That fell in 'Sixty-Four?
Though the door is closed on that old, old year,
And its face shut out forever,
With its babes and its brides and its slaughtered dead Shut out-shut out forever!
Yet the hopes and joys which died in the Old,
In the New Year may revive,
And the hearts that were wounded in 'Sixty-Four,
May be healed in 'Sixty-Five.
Though we can not call up from the churchyard snows The treasures they hold securely;
Though our hearts are sick for the smile of those
Who sleep in the Lord,-yet surely,
As out of the cactus, rough with thorns,
A rich bright flower may thrive,
The griefs which were briers in 'Sixty-Four
May be blossoms in 'Sixty-Five.
If fathers, brothers, husbands, sons,
'Neath the flag they loved enlisted, Have dropped in the blaze of the roaring guns, And perished, unassisted;
Though homes be drear, and hearts be sore,
To do God's will we strive;
And the dear ones slaughtered in 'Sixty-Four
Are the martyrs of 'Sixty-Five!
Then, brothers, a health to the year that's gone,
And a health to the year to be;
The young King mounts the vacant throne
With a smile of victory.
War at his feet, expiring, lies
While the clouds melt in the South:
And the dove sails up the sunny skies
With the olive in her mouth.
And the dumb have speech, and eyes, once dim,
Now clearly, brightly see;
And the fetters fall from many a limb,
That ne'er before was free.
And voices arise from swamp and shore,
Like the hum of bees in the hive,
From those who were slaves in 'Sixty-Four,
The freemen of 'Sixty-Five!
Then come to the crowning of the King,
The monarch of grace and glory,
Whose golden fame with bards shall sing,
Whose name shall be writ in story.
And bless the Lord we all adore,
Through whom we live and thrive,
And pray that the awful scourge of war,
The vices and wrongs of 'Sixty-Four,
May die with its dead, and rise no more,
To haunt us in 'Sixty-Five!
HENCE come those shrieks so wild and shrill,
That cut, like blades of steel, the air,
Causing the creeping blood to chill
With the sharp cadence of despair?
Again they come, as if a heart
Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, And every string had voice apart
To utter its peculiar woe.
Whence came they? from yon temple, where
An altar, raised for private prayer,
Now forms the warrior's marble bed
Who Warsaw's gallant armies led.
The dim funereal tapers throw
A holy luster o'er his brow,
And burnish with their rays of light
The mass of curls that gather bright
Above the haughty brow and eye
Of a young boy that's kneeling by.
What hand is that, whose icy press
Clings to the dead with death's own grasp,
But meets no answering caress?
No thrilling fingers seek its clasp.
It is the hand of her whose cry
Rang wildly, late, upon the air,
When the dead warrior met her eye
Outstretched upon the altar there.
With pallid lip and stony brow
She murmurs forth her anguish now.
But hark! the tramp of heavy feet
Is heard along the bloody street;
Nearer and nearer yet they come,
With clanking arms and noiseless drum.
Now whispered curses, low and deep,
Around the holy temple creep;
The gate is burst; a ruffian band
Rush in, and savagely demand,
With brutal voice and oath profane,
The startled boy for exile's chain.
The mother sprang with gesture wild,
And to her bosom clasped her child;
Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye,
Shouted with fearful energy,
"Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread
Too near the body of my dead;
Nor touch the living boy; I stand
Between him and your lawless band.
Take me, and bind these arms, these hands,
With Russia's heaviest iron bands,
And drag me to Siberia's wild
To perish, if 't will save my child!"
"Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried,
Tearing the pale boy from her side,
And in his ruffian grasp he bore
His victim to the temple door.
"One moment!" shrieked the mother; "one !
Will land or gold redeem my son?
Take heritage, take name, take all,
But leave him free from Russian thrall!
Take these!" and her white arms and hands
She stripped of rings and diamond bands,
And tore from braids of long black hair
The gems that gleamed like starlight there;
Her cross of blazing rubies, last,
Down at the Russian's feet she cast.
He stooped to seize the glittering store;-
Up springing from the marble floor,
The mother, with a cry of joy,
Snatched to her leaping heart the boy.
But no! the Russian's iron grasp
Again undid the mother's clasp.
Forward she fell, with one long cry
Of more than mortal agony.
But the brave child is roused at length,
And, breaking from the Russian's hold
He stands, a giant in the strength
Of his young spirit, fierce and bold.
Proudly he towers; his flashing eye,
So blue, and yet so bright,
Seems kindled from the eternal sky,
So brilliant is its light.
His curling lips and crimson cheeks
Foretell the thought before he speaks;
With a full voice of proud command.
He turned upon the wondering band:
"Ye hold me not! no! no, nor can ;
This hour has made the boy a man.
I knelt before my slaughtered sire,
Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire.
I wept upon his marble brow,
Yes, wept! I was a child; but now
My noble mother, on her knee,
Hath done the work of years for me!"
He drew aside his broidered vest,
And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, The jewelled haft of poniard bright Glittered a moment on the sight.
"Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave! Think ye my noble father's glaive
Would drink the life blood of a slave?
The pearls that on the handle flame
Would blush to rubies in their shame;
The blade would quiver in thy breast
Ashamed of such ignoble rest.
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