Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 10.
Reverend J. William Jones, Ed.

[281]
     Where Right finds a holy Rest
On the altar-stairs that slope
     Toward the throne where reigns the Just,
Where we still live on and hope,
     And in Him we place our trust.

Is it treason thus to sing?
     Why, then treason let it be,
Must we stoop to fawn on wrong?
     To the Idol must we bring
Our heart's idolatry
     And the fealty of song?
No, no ;--the past is past--
     May it never come again;
May no drum, or bugle's blast
     Summon warriors to the plain!
The battle's play is o'er,
     We staked our all and lost--
The red wild waves that tossed
     The Southland's sacred bark
Are sleeping on the shore.
     She went down in the dark.
Is it wrong for us to listen
     To the waves that still will glisten
Where the wreck we loved went down?
     Is it wrong to watch the willows
That are drooping o'er the grave?
     Is it wrong to love our brave?

Are our memories a treason
     To the Powers we must obey?
Can the victors give a reason
     Why the men who wore the gray
From our hearts should march away,
     And should pass from us forever
Like the dreamings of the night?
     Do they want the South to sever
The blood-consecrated ties,
     The sacred bonds of sorrow
That will link our last To-morrow
     To our glory hallowed Past?
Ah! our hearts cry: Never! Never!
     For each soldier heart that dies
In our memories still is beating;
     Thoa the years are fast retreating,
We remember to the last.