376 Southern Historical Society Papers.
way, with a host of once familiar faces that are to be seen no more on this earth, but who, we trust, have reached the eternal shore, where there shall be no sorrow, and where they shall have " beaten their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning-hooks. " I append as a fitting conclusion to these imperfect reminiscences, the beautiful and tender poem of Percy Greg, the English historian, which needs only to be read to be appreciated.
The gth of April, 1865.
It is a nation's death-cry yes, the agony is past,
The stoutest race that ever fought to-day has fought its last.
Aye! start and shudder, well thou may'st, well veil thy weeping eyes;
England! may God forgive thy part man cannot but despise.
Aye! shudder at that cry that speaks the South's supreme despair Thou that could save andsaved'stnot that would, yet did not dare; Thou that hadst might to aid the right and heart to brook the wrong, Weak words of comfort for the weak, and strong hands to help the strong.
That land, the garden of thy wealth, one haggard waste appears The ashes of her sunny homes are slaked in patriot tears; Tears for the slain who died in vain for freedom on the field; Tears, tears of bitter anguish still for those who lived to yield,
The cannon of his country pealed Stuart's funeral knell, His soldiers' cheers rang in his ears as Stonewall Jackson fell, Onward o'er gallant Ashby's grave swept war's successful tide, And Southern hopes were living yet when Polk and Morgan died.
But he, the leader, on whose words those captains loved to wait, The noblest, bravest, best of all, hath found a harder fate; Unscathed by shot and steel he passed o'er many a desperate field; Oh, God! that he hath lived so long, and only lived to yield.
Along the war-worn, wasted ranks that loved him to the last, With saddened face and weary pace the vanquished chieftain passed, Their own hard lot the men forgot, they felt what his must be, What thoughts in that dark hour must wring the heart of General Lee.
