M. W. Ransom

(Died October 8, 1904)



        For him, who in a hundred battles stood
            Scorning the cannon's mouth,
        Grimy with flame and red with foeman's blood,
            For thy sweet sake, O South;

        Who, wise as brave, yielded his conquered sword
            At a vain war's surcease,
        And spoke, thy champion still, the statesman's word
            In the calm halls of peace;

        Who pressed the ruddy wine to thy faint lips,
            Where thy torn body lay,
        And saw afar time's white in-sailing ships
            Bringing a happier day:

        Oh, mourn for him, dear land that gave him birth!
            Bow low thy sorrowing head!
        Let thy seared leaves fall silent on the earth
            Whereunder he lies dead!

        In field and hall, in valor and in grace,
            In wisdom's livery,
        Gentle and brave, he moved with knightly pace,
            A worthy son of thee!

John Charles McNeill

John Charles McNeill was a prominent American poet known for his works that vividly depicted the landscapes and spirit of North Carolina. Born on July 26, 1874, in Wagram, North Carolina, he won acclaim with his book 'Songs Merry and Sad,' which won the Patterson Cup in 1905. His poetry primarily reflects rural life and Southern traditions. Sadly, McNeill's promising career was cut short when he died on October 17, 1907, at the young age of 33.

John Charles McNeill

Protest

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

Paul Jones

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

Gray Days

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

Trifles

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

English

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What news to all alike brings startling sorrow?
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Of him the State's most skilful, ablest head,
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        A century of silent suns
            Have set since he was laid on sleep,
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Death Of President Lincoln.

In the Capitol is mourning,
    Mourning and woe this day,
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It was yester'even only
    Rejoicing wild and high,
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A Dirge for McPherson,[13] Killed in front of Atlanta.

(July, 1864.)


Arms reversed and banners craped -
Muffled drums;
Snowy horses sable-draped -
McPherson comes.

But, tell us, shall we know him more,
Lost-Mountain and lone Kenesaw?

Brave the sword upon the pall -
A gleam in gloom;
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McPherson's doom.

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Pace before the warrior
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Lay him down within the nave,
The Lesson read -
Man is noble, man is brave,
But man's - a weed.

Take him up again and wend
Graveward, nor weep:
There's a trumpet that shall rend
This Soldier's sleep.

Pass the ropes the coffin round,
And let descend;
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McPh...

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Killed At The Ford.

He is dead, the beautiful youth,
The heart of honor, the tongue of truth,
He, the life and light of us all,
Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call,
Whom all eyes followed with one consent,
The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word,
Hushed all murmurs of discontent.

Only last night, as we rode along,
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To visit the picket-guard at the ford,
Little dreaming of any mishap,
He was humming the words of some old song:
"Two red roses he had on his cap,
And another he bore at the point of his sword."

Sudden and swift a whistling ball
Came out of a wood, and the voice was still;
Something I heard in the darkness fall,
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Sunrise.

    September 26, 1881.


Weep for the martyr!    Strew his bier
With the last roses of the year;
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Beat the dull muffled drum, and flaunt
The drooping banner; let the chant
Of the deep-throated organ sob -
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From land to land, from sea to sea -
The huge world quires his elegy.
Tears, love, and honor he shall have,
Through ages keeping green his grave.
Too late approved, too early lost,
His story is the people's boast.
Tough-sinewed offspring of the soil,
Of peasant lineage, reared to toil,
In Europe he had been a thing
To the glebe tethered - here a king!
Crowned not for some transcendent gift,
Genius of power that may lift<...

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