He's in the saddle now. Fall in!
the whole brigade!
Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win
His way out, ball and blade!
What matter if our shoes are worn?
What matter if our feet are torn?
we're with him before morn!’
That's ‘Stonewall Jackson's way.’
The sun's bright lances rout the mists
Of morning, and, by George!
Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge.
Pope and his Dutchmen, whipped before;
‘Bay'nets and grape!’ hear Stonewall roar;
Pay off Ashby's score!’
In ‘Stonewall Jackson's way.’
wait and watch and yearn
For news of Stonewall's band.
read, with eyes that burn,
That ring upon thy hand.
sew on, pray on, hope on;
Thy life shall not be all forlorn;
The foe had better ne'er been born
That gets in ‘Stonewall's way.’
‘Order A. P. Hill to prepare for battle.’
‘Tell Major Hawks to advance the commissary train.’
‘Let us cross the river and rest in the shade.’
the remarkable feature of this elegy is the spirit of resignation that pervades it. No strain of bitterness can be discovered, though it was written in September of 1865, while the young poet, who had lost his health in prison the winter before, was residing in Georgia
was later one of the first Southerers to express the sentiment of nationality.
The stars of Night contain the glittering Day
And rain his glory down with sweeter grace
Upon the dark World's grand, enchanted face—
All loth to turn away.