ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE.
ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE.
OVE my arm-chair, faithful Pompey,
In the sunshine bright and strong,
For this world is fading, Pompey-
Massa won't be with you long;
And I fain would hear the south wind
Bring once more the sound to me
Of the wavelets softly breaking
On the shores of Tennessee.
"Mournful though the ripples murmur,
As they still the story tell,
How no vessels float the banner
That I've loved so long and well,
I shall listen to their music,
Dreaming that again I see
Stars and Stripes on sloop and shallop,
Sailing up the Tennessee.
"And, Pompey, while old Massa's waiting
For death's last dispatch to come,
If that exiled starry banner
Should come proudly sailing home,
You shall greet it, slave no longer-
Voice and hand shall both be free
That shout and point to Union colors,
On the waves of Tennessee."
"Massa's berry kind to Pompey; But ole darky's happy here,
Where he's tended corn and cotton
For 'ese many a long-gone year. Over yonder, Missis sleeping
No one tends her grave like me; Mebbe she would miss the flowers She used to love in Tennessee.
""Pears like she was watching Massa,
If Pompey should beside him stay;
ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE.
Mebbe she'd remember better
How for him she used to pray;
Telling him that 'way up yonder
White as snow. his soul would be,
If he served the Lord of heaven
While he lived in Tennessee.”
Silently the tears were rolling
Down the poor, old, dusky face,
As he stepped behind his master,
In his long-accustomed place.
Then a silence fell around them,
As they gazed on rock and tree,
Pictured in the placid waters
Of the rolling Tennessee;-
Master, dreaming of the battle
Where he fought by Marion's side,
When he bid the haughty Tarleton
Stoop his lordly crest of pride;
Man, remembering how yon sleeper
Once he held upon his knee,
Ere she loved the gallant soldier,
Ralph Vervair, of Tennessee.
Still the south wind fondly lingers
'Mid the veteran's silvery hair;
Still the bondman, close beside him,
Stands behind the old arm-chair,
With his dark-hued hand uplifted,
Shading eyes, he bends to see
Where the woodland, boldly jutting,
Turns aside the Tennessee.
Thus he watches cloud-born shadows
Glide from tree to mountain crest,
Softly creeping, aye and ever,
To the river's yielding breast.
Ha! above the foliage yonder
Something flutters wild and free!
THE BRIGADE AT FONTENOY.
"Massa! Massa! Hallelujah!
The flag's come back to Tennessee!"
"Pompey, hold me on your shoulder,
Help me stand on foot once more,
That I may salute the colors
As they pass my cabin door.
Here's the paper signed that frees you;
Give a freeman's shout with me-
'God and Union!' be our watchword
Evermore in Tennessee."
Then the trembling voice grew fainter,
And the limbs refused to stand;
One prayer to Jesus-and the soldier
Glided to that better land.
When the flag went down the river,
Man and master both were free,
While the ring-dove's note was mingled
With the rippling Tennessee.
THE BRIGADE AT FONTENOY.
OY our camp-fires rose a murmur,
At the dawning of the day,
And the tread of many footsteps
Spoke the advent of the fray;
And as we took our places,
Few and stern were our words,
While some were tightening horse-girths,
And some were girding swords.
The trumpet blast has sounded
Our footmen to array;
The willing steed has bounded,
Impatient for the fray;
The green flag is unfolded,
While rose the cry of joy,
"Heaven speed dear Ireland's banner To-day at Fontenoy."
We looked upon that banner,
And the memory arose
Of our homes and perished kindred,
Where the Lee or Shannon flows;
We looked upon that banner,
And we swore to God on high,
To smite to-day the Saxon's might,-
To conquer or to die.
Loud swells the charging trumpet,-
"Tis a voice from our own land;
God of battles-God of vengeance,
Guide to-day the patriot's brand;
There are stains to wash away;
There are memories to destroy,
In the best blood of the Briton
To-day at Fontenoy.
Plunge deep the fiery rowels
In a thousand reeking flanks,
Down, chivalry of Ireland,
Down on the British ranks:
Now shall their serried columns
Beneath our sabres reel,
Through their ranks, then, with the war-horse ;
Through their bosoms with the steel.
With one shout for good King Louis,
And the fair land of the vine,
Like the wrathful Alpine tempest,
We swept upon their line,-
Then rang along the battle-field
Triumphant our hurrah,
And we smote them down, still cheering
As dear as to the lover
The smile of gentle maid,—
Is this day of long-sought vengeance
To the swords of the Brigade.
See their shattered forces flying,
A broken, routed line,-
See England, what brave laurels
For your brow to-day we twine.
Oh, thrice bless'd the hour that witnessed
The Briton turn to flee
From the chivalry of Erin,
And France's "fleur de lis!"
As we lay beside our camp-fires,
When the sun had passed away,
And thought upon our brethren,
Who had perished in the fray,—
We prayed to God to grant us-
And then we'd die with joy-
One day upon our own dear land
Like this of Fontenoy.
WHICH shall it be? which shall it be?"
I looked at John,-John looked at me.
(Dear, patient John, who loves me yet
As well as though my locks were jet.)
And when I found that I must speak,
My voice seemed strangely low and weak;
"Tell me again what Robert said;"
And then I, listening, bent my head.
"This is his letter:"
A house and land while you shall live,
If, in return, from out your seven,
One child to me for aye is given."
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