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Appeal for the soldiers.
Scorn by an Orphan on the Anniversary of October 18. 1861.

‘ I ask a gift, but not for us:
We feel no griefs, we fear no wants;
To live a life exempted thee,
From common ills, your bounty grants;
For us, without a passing care,
The reasons changes year after year.
I ask for those who freely give.
Their hives upon the tended field,
Who bleed and die that you may live
Unharmed and safe; such heart a shield,
A panoply for you and yours,
A rampart on Potomac's shores.
Is there an eye, of all I see,
One eye that could undimmed remain,
Or tearless at the agony
Of beside on Manassas' plain,
Where manly forms, defaced and torn,
Caused victory herself to mourn !
She mourned with mingled smiles and tears,
Apart, by stalwart Johnson's side,
At gallant Bartow's dying cheers,
For Bes, his country's hops and prides.
Than those she wept no nobler son
At Salamis or Marathon.
Sick, wounded, now, on beds of pain,
In dreary hospital immured,
Your so' dlers seck, but seek in vain,
The wonted and for ills endured;
At home — the hand and voice to cheer,
The loving hearts, are wanted there.
Or on the watch at night they stand,
Exposed to chilling dews and rain,
Or march by day — a chosen band,
To scout the hostile hill and plain;
In stuttered cloak and coarse array--
Yet none so bold or bly the as they.
There in the forest lair they lie,
Mellow leaves their tentless bed,
To earth, with wakeful ear and eye,
The cunning foe's insidious tread,
Then wander at the dawning back,
To join the cheerless bivouac.
For these I ask. Can any pause?
What hand so slow, what heart so cold,
As stop to count, in such a cause,
A petty sum of paltry gold,
When, more than gold can buy, the true
And dustless soldier gives for you !
Ye gallant hearts of hundred strain,
Say shall I ask your gifts in vain?
The heaving breast, the flashing eye,
The maiden's starting tear reply.
No gifts enough, they say, for those
Whose arms have tamed our hateful foes.
O, never shad the tale be told.
That Southern heart or hands withhold
Aught the devoted warriors need.
Who march and toll and watch and bleed,
To guard their country's a clement fame,
Her homes to save from sword and flame,
Her honor from pollution's breath,
Her beaut uniform worse than death.
No! let them feel, though far they roam,
They five on every heart at home

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Lewis Johnson (1)
Bartow (1)
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October 18th, 1861 AD (1)
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