In some fond breast, his image is enshrin'd;
'Round some true heart, his memory is entwin'd.
In some unbroken alabaster box,
Love still for him the precious ointment locks.
In some worn album of the days of yore,
His winsome features wake to life once more.
In some old desk, his letters still are kept,
O'er which some lonely lass has often wept.
In some priz'd locket, worn by lady fair,
Is treasur'd still some keepsake of his hair.
Somewhere, to him, a leaf, Fate still allots,
In some sweet rose-jar of forget-me-nots.
Somewhere, for him, the eye with moisture fills,
It may be, in some cottage of the hills,
Where, 'neath the honeysuckle's fragrant bower
Sits a lone figure at the twilight hour,
And, drawn toward the sunset's phantom ships,
Dreams, with the waiting kiss upon her lips.
Some maiden's hero, some sweet sister's joy,-
Some mother's darling was this unknown boy,
Whose infant prattle, to her memory dear,
Still melts like music in her listening ear.
Each doting mother, in her heart's fond trust,
Can fancy this to be her darling's dust.
For, of the lads, who heard the tocsin's call,
Was not her boy the princeliest of them all?-
Of all whose dust the fields of war have sown
Was not the bravest, brightest blade her own?
Glory's proud goblet, sparkling to the brim,
Were not an offering too rich for him!/
She sees those golden locks in beauty stray
O'er the fair forehead of a younger day.
Hears that lov'd voice, from out the silence deep,
Still murmuring, "Now I lay me down to sleep."
Come dreams at night to ease her heart's sore pain-
They give her back her missing boy again.
That message grim which caus'd her heart to break Was after all, a blunder, a mistake
A vessel speeds before the swelling breeze,
A step is heard-he's back from o'er the seas!
But, ah, she wakes! May God soon wipe her eyes,
Up there, in the home-coming of the skies.
Here, at this shrine, mute thanks to Heaven we give
For him who died that Liberty might live.
Whose unknown grave pledges the nation's youth,
To high resolves, to freedom, and to truth.
To seek, not glory's evanescent flower,
Whose bloom is wak'd, to wither in an hour-
But to obey the voice of Duty's call,
Whether it be to follow or to fall.
To win th' eternal recompense of Right
Is worthier far the shield of warrior-knight,
Though not a blast upon Fame's trump be blown,
To sound his summons to a grave unknown.
Though sweet the dews shed round an honor'd name,
It faints and fades upon the fields of Fame;
But Right, unshaken by tempestuous shocks,
Stands rooted, like the everlasting rocks-
True principles, beyond the wrecks of wars,
Survive, with Virtue, to outlive the stars!
These, 'mid the silent night's sepulchral gloom,
Pour lingering light upon the patriot's tomb,
Gild the dark curtains 'round his mansion drawn
And point the way to sunrise and to dawn!
Happy is he who for the Right has bled,
Though he be number'd with the unknown dead.
Unknown to us, but to the Shepherd known,
Who, through the night's deep silence, keeps His own; Who, in the shadow of the mighty rock,
Shields every tender nursling of the flock;
Knows every lamb by name, heals every wound,
Goes forth, till every wandering foot is found.
And, on the far-off heavenly hills of gold
Will bring them all into the Father's fold.
Ah, scatter'd wide, by wild-flowers over-grown,
Full many a soldier's grave is mark'd-"unknown".
But reverently, in this pathetic pall,
Pay we a nation's tribute to them all;-
To every nameless lion of the line
A grateful country lifts a pilgrim shrine,
Where, here at rest, from conflict's loud alarms,
She holds an unknown hero in her arms-
Will hold him close to her maternal breast
Till fades the latest sunset in the west;
Till, rais'd triumphant o'er the frowning fates,
His name is blaz'd on Fame's memorial gates,
And, from the love-clasp of the hill-side sod,
Laurel'd for Heaven, she gives him back to God!
Whene'er to her, my thoughts recur
Bright glow the wing-ed hours,—
In fancy's loom, how fair they bloom,
All woven into flowers!
O'er life's long miles her lingering smiles
Undim'd behind me lie,
Weaving, in spells of immortelles,
A charm that cannot die!
Know this-tried in the battle fires-
He comes not of a race of cowards;
His strain deriv'd from English sires
Can match the blood of all the Howards.
Link'd to the lineage of the Lees
What memories its mention musters! Was knighthood's wine-beyond the seasE'er press'd from such imperial clusters?
From youth, entranc'd by tales of wars,
His music was the cannon's rattle;
Where'er he fought, a beardless Mars
Was seen upon the field of battle.
Sprung from a race of Cavaliers,
Wearers of crests, with stars bespangl'd,
Prince Rupert led his proud forbears,
With locks in glory's halo tangl'd.
Knights of the Garter and the Star!
To storm the fiery gates of Hades, Each plume would sally forth to war For love of England's gentle ladies.
In tilt-yards of the Norman Court,
When glory's other name was France's,
On honor's roll each champion wrote
His shining name with battle-lances.
To Washington's "God for the Right!"
Behold our continentals rally,
Or watch our gray battalions fight
With storied Stonewall in the Valley.
'Twas Southern men who westward bore, Without a stain, our banner'd beagles, Till, high o'er conquer'd Mexico,
Flutter'd Old Glory's mountain-eagles.
Write this upon Columbia's shield
For all within our fair communion
Whether in forum or in field,
'Twas Southern men who made the Union!
From sires like these, to be rever'd,
Till Time's last day on earth is ended
True knights, to chivalry endear'd-
The sons of Dixie have descended!
Well, I must say, it was a day
For Georgia most unlucky,
A day of woes, that pluck'd our rose,
To bloom in old Kentucky.
Ne'er summer hour saw sweeter flower,
Spring from a castle's cranny;-
On Memory's screen, forever Green,
You'll always be "Miss Fanny."
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