From “Sentinel Songs” THE FALLEN cause still waits,— Its bard has not come yet, His song—through one of to-morrow’s gates Shall shine—but never set. But when he comes—he ’ll sweep A harp with tears all stringed, And the very notes he strikes will weep, As they come, from his hand, woe-winged. Ah! grand shall be his strain, And his songs shall fill all climes, And the Rebels shall rise and march again Down the lines of his glorious rhymes. And through his verse shall gleam The swords that flashed in vain, And the men who wore the gray shall seem To be marshalling again. But hush! between his words Peer faces sad and pale, And you hear the sound of broken chords Beat through the poet’s wail. Through his verse the orphans cry— The terrible undertone! And the father’s curse and the mother’s sigh, And the desolate young wife’s moan.* * * * * I sing, with a voice too low To be heard beyond to-day, In minor keys of my people’s woe; And my songs pass away. To-morrow hears them not— To-morrow belongs to fame: My songs—like the birds’—will be forgot, And forgotten shall be my name. And yet who knows! betimes The grandest songs depart, While the gentle, humble, and low-toned rhymes Will echo from heart to heart.
The Cause of the South
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From “Sentinel Songs” THE FALLEN cause still waits,— Its bard has not come yet, His song—through one of to-morrow’s gates Shall shine—but never set. But when he comes—he ’ll sweep A harp with tears all stringed, And the very notes he strikes will weep, As they come, from his hand, woe-...
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