The Sword of Robert Lee

Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright,
    Flashed the sword of Lee!
Far in the front of the deadly fight,
High o'er the brave in the cause of Right,
Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light,
    Led us to Victory!

Out of its scabbard, where, full long,
    It slumbered peacefully,
Roused from its rest by the battle's song,
Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong,
Guarding the right, avenging the wrong,
    Gleamed the sword of Lee!

Forth from its scabbard, high in air
    Beneath Virginia's sky --
And they who saw it gleaming there,
And knew who bore it, knelt to swear
That where that sword led they would dare
    To follow -- and to die!

Out of its scabbard!    Never hand
    Waved sword from stain as free,
Nor purer sword led braver band,
Nor braver bled for a brighter land,
Nor brighter land had a cause so grand,
    Nor cause a chief like Lee!

Forth from its scabbard!    How we prayed
    That sword might victor be;
And when our triumph was delayed,
And many a heart grew sore afraid,
We still hoped on while gleamed the blade
    Of noble Robert Lee!

Forth from its scabbard all in vain
    Bright flashed the sword of Lee;
'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again,
It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain,
Defeated, yet without a stain,
    Proudly and peacefully!

Abram Joseph Ryan

Abram Joseph Ryan was an American poet, Catholic priest, and former Confederate chaplain. Known as the 'Poet-Priest of the South,' his most famous work is 'The Conquered Banner.' Ryan wrote many poems that reflected his Southern heritage and the American Civil War. His works often possess a spiritual and melancholic tone, inspired by the losses of the war and his religious faith. In addition to poetry, he also wrote essays and gave public speeches.

Abram Joseph Ryan

Rhyme

Abram Joseph Ryan, Simple Poetry

What? (To Ethel)

Abram Joseph Ryan, Simple Poetry

Far Away

Abram Joseph Ryan, Simple Poetry

Sea Rest

Abram Joseph Ryan, Simple Poetry

English

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Sentinel Songs

When falls the soldier brave,
Dead at the feet of wrong,
The poet sings and guards his grave
With sentinels of song.

Songs, march! he gives command,
Keep faithful watch and true;
The living and dead of the conquered land
Have now no guards save you.

Gray ballads! mark ye well!
Thrice holy is your trust!
Go! halt by the fields where warriors fell;
Rest arms! and guard their dust.

List, songs! your watch is long,
The soldiers' guard was brief;
Whilst right is right, and wrong is wrong,
Ye may not seek relief.

Go! wearing the gray of grief!
Go! watch o'er the dead in gray!
Go! guard the private and guard the chief,
And sentinel their clay!

And the songs, in stately rhyme
And with softly sounding tread,
G...

Abram Joseph Ryan

The Lee Memorial Ode.

"Great Mother of great Commonwealths"
Men call our Mother State:
And she so well has earned this name
That she may challenge Fate
To snatch away the epithet
Long given her of "great."

First of all Old England's outposts
To stand fast upon these shores
Soon she brought a mighty harvest
To a People's threshing floors,
And more than golden grain was piled
Within her ample doors.

Behind her stormy sunrise shone,
Her shadow fell vast and long,
And her mighty Adm'ral, English Smith,
Heads a prodigous throng
Of as mighty men, from Raleigh down,
As ever arose in song.

Her names are the shining arrows
Which her ancient quiver bears,
And their splendid sheaf has thickened
Through the long march of the years,
While her grea...

James Barron Hope

March of the Deathless Dead

Gather the sacred dust
    Of the warriors tried and true,
Who bore the flag of a Nation's trust
And fell in a cause, though lost, still just,
    And died for me and you.

Gather them one and all,
    From the private to the chief;
Come they from hovel or princely hall,
They fell for us, and for them should fall
    The tears of a Nation's grief.

Gather the corpses strewn
    O'er many a battle plain;
From many a grave that lies so lone,
Without a name and without a stone,
    Gather the Southern slain.

We care not whence they came,
    Dear in their lifeless clay!
Whether unknown, or known to fame,
Their cause and country still the same;
    They died -- and wore the Gray.

Wherever the brave have died,
    They...

Abram Joseph Ryan

In Memoriam (David J. Ryan, C.S.A.)

Thou art sleeping, brother, sleeping
    In thy lonely battle grave;
Shadows o'er the past are creeping,
Death, the reaper, still is reaping,
Years have swept, and years are sweeping
Many a memory from my keeping,
But I'm waiting still, and weeping
    For my beautiful and brave.

When the battle songs were chanted,
    And war's stirring tocsin pealed,
By those songs thy heart was haunted,
And thy spirit, proud, undaunted,
Clamored wildly -- wildly panted:
"Mother! let my wish be granted;
I will ne'er be mocked and taunted
That I fear to meet our vaunted
    Foemen on the bloody field.

"They are thronging, mother! thronging,
    To a thousand fields of fame;
Let me go -- 'tis wrong, and wronging
God and thee to crush this longin...

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C.S.A.

Do we weep for the heroes who died for us,
Who living were true and tried for us,
And dying sleep side by side for us;
    The Martyr-band
    That hallowed our land
With the blood they shed in a tide for us?

Ah! fearless on many a day for us
They stood in front of the fray for us,
And held the foeman at bay for us;
    And tears should fall
    Fore'er o'er all
Who fell while wearing the gray for us.

How many a glorious name for us,
How many a story of fame for us
They left: Would it not be a blame for us
    If their memories part
    From our land and heart,
And a wrong to them, and shame for us?

No, no, no, they were brave for us,
And bright were the lives they gave for us;
The land they struggled to save for us
 ...

Abram Joseph Ryan

Lay His Sword By His Side.

Lay his sword by his side,^[1]--it hath served him too well
    Not to rest near his pillow below;
To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,
    Its point was still turned to a flying foe.
Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in death,
    Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave,--
That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath,
    And himself unsubdued in his grave.

Yet pause--for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,
    As if breathed from his brave heart's remains;--
Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,
    Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!"
And it cries from the grave where the hero lies deep,
    "Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set,
"Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep,--
    ...

Thomas Moore