Читать книгу War Poetry of the South - Various - Страница 31

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Ye spirits of the glorious dead!

Ye watchers in the sky!

Who sought the patriot's crimson bed,

With holy trust and high--

Come, lend your inspiration now,

Come, fire each Southern son,

Who nobly fights for freemen's rights,

And shouts for sixty-one.

Come, teach them how, on hill on glade,

Quick leaping from your side,

The lightning flash of sabres made

A red and flowing tide--

How well ye fought, how bravely fell,

Beneath our burning sun;

And let the lyre, in strains of fire,

So speak of sixty-one.

There's many a grave in all the land,

And many a crucifix,

Which tells how that heroic band

Stood firm in seventy-six--

Ye heroes of the deathless past,

Your glorious race is run,

But from your dust springs freemen's trust,

And blows for sixty-one.

We build our altars where you lie,

On many a verdant sod,

With sabres pointing to the sky,

And sanctified of God;

The smoke shall rise from every pile,

Till freedom's cause is won,

And every mouth throughout the South,

Shall shout for sixty-one!