Instinctively his fingers clutch the sword, Which hangs beside him; then the glittering blade- Its metal unsurrender'd! Heaven be praised! Was lower'd by his command, to pluck from death Write over her the legend, "Here we rest!" XI. T THE OLD SOUTH. HE old South! Ah, what tender chords are touch'd, Fond Memory wakes the past! The very words, Can we behold her counterpart? O, not In Caesar's Rome, when soul-bewitching eyes When, fir'd by Helen's beauty, it awoke The slumbering harp of Homer;-not in Greece, Of regal pyramids, when Egypt's queen And wove the spells for which a madman flung And Martha serv'd and Mary's ointment breath'd The Southern woman, matchless in her mold,— If match thou canst, the Southern gentleman, But far-fetch'd likeness, such as glowworms bear Whose royal stamp of manhood would have grac'd When Raleigh caught her smile, when Sidney shone What could yon mountain tell us of the days When Dixie's knighthood flower'd? When men were brave But tender, strong but gentle, proud but true, Traits all from molds of chivalry deriv'd, Befitting well the sons whose gallant sires Were English Cavaliers, who followed kings And starr'd imperial courts! When women, too, |