Dirge For Ashby.

Heard ye that thrilling word -
    Accent of dread -
Flash like a thunderbolt,
    Bowing each head -
Crash through the battle dun,
Over the booming gun -
"Ashby, our bravest one, -
    Ashby is dead!"

Saw ye the veterans -
    Hearts that had known
Never a quail of fear,
    Never a groan -
Sob 'mid the fight they win,
- Tears their stern eyes within, -
"Ashby, our Paladin,
    Ashby is gone!"

Dash, - dash the tear away -
    Crush down the pain!
"Dulce et decus," be
    Fittest refrain!
Why should the dreary pall
Round him be flung at all?
Did not our hero fall
    Gallantly slain?

Catch the last word of cheer
    Dropt from his tongue;
Over the volley's din,
    Loud be it rung -
"Follow me! follow me!" -
Soldier, oh! could there be
Pæan or dirge for thee,
    Loftier sung!

Bold as the Lion-heart,
    Dauntless and brave;
Knightly as knightliest
    Bayard could crave;
Sweet with all Sidney's grace -
Tender as Hampden's face -
Who - who shall fill the space
    Void by his grave?

'Tis not one broken heart,
    Wild with dismay;
Crazed with her agony,
    Weeps o'er his clay:
Ah! from a thousand eyes
Flow the pure tears that rise;
Widowed Virginia lies
    Stricken to-day!

Yet - though that thrilling word -
    Accent of dread -
Falls like a thunderbolt,
    Bowing each head -
Heroes! be battle done
Bravelier every one,
Nerved by the thought alone -
    Ashby is dead!

Margaret J. Preston

No biography available

Margaret J. Preston

Jackson. A Sonnet.

Margaret J. Preston, Simple Poetry

Virginia Capta.

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When The War Is Over. A Christmas Lay.

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Stonewall Jackson's Grave.[A]

Margaret J. Preston, Simple Poetry

English

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Stonewall Jackson's Grave.[A]

A simple, sodded mound of earth,
    Without a line above it;
With only daily votive flowers
    To prove that any love it:
The token flag that silently
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Alone keeps martial ward above
    The hero's dreamless slumbers.

No name? - no record? Ask the world;
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    A prouder tale of glory: -
If ever merely human life
    Hath taught diviner moral, -
If ever round a worthier brow
    Was twined a purer laurel!

A twelvemonth only, since his sword
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A twelvemonth only, since his ear
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PLATE I
Rixa super mero

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What news to all alike brings startling sorrow?
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I


Then first I knew, seeing that bent grey head,
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Why comes not Francis? From the doleful City
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To Ambrose that! and then a knell
For him, the sweet half-opened Flower!
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Save for rattling iron and steel,
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Showering faintly, peal on peal.

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While beside the guns our men drop,
Slyly shot from either flank.

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Boughs upon the windy hill.

I can see the moonlight shining
Over fields of frozen calm;
I can hear the chapel organ,
And the singing of the psalm.

Fare you well, then, English village,
Which of all I loved the most,
Where my ghost alone can wander
Once again, when life is lost.

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