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Browsing named entities in a specific section of Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 8. (ed. Frank Moore). Search the whole document.

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Gettysburgh (Pennsylvania, United States) (search for this): chapter 163
the house was hushed and the hill-side lone. But oh! to feel my boys were foes Was more than loss or battle's steel! In every shifting cloud that rose I saw their hostile squadrons wheel; And heard in the waves as they hurried by, Their hasty tread when the fight was nigh, And, deep in the wail which the night-winds bore, Their dying moan when the fight was o'er. So time went on. The skies were blue; Our wheat-fields yellow in the sun; When down the vale a rider flew: “Ho! neighbors, Gettysburgh is won! Horse and foot, at the cannon's mouth We hurled them back to the hungry South; The North is safe, and the vile marauder Curses the hour he crossed the border.” My boys were there! I nearer pressed-- “And Philip, Courtney, what of them?” His voice dropped low: “O madam! rest Falls sweet when battle's tide we stem: Your Philip was first of the brave that day With his colors grasped as in death he lay: And Courtney-well, I only knew Not a man was left of his rebel crew” . .
Courtney (search for this): chapter 163
he moonlit floor. Roll back, O weary years! and bring Again the gay and cloudless morn, When every bird was on the wing, And my blithe summer boys were born! My Courtney fair, my Philip bold, With his laughing eyes and his locks of gold! No nested bird in the valley wide Sang as my heart that eventide. Our laurels blush when May back to the hungry South; The North is safe, and the vile marauder Curses the hour he crossed the border.” My boys were there! I nearer pressed-- “And Philip, Courtney, what of them?” His voice dropped low: “O madam! rest Falls sweet when battle's tide we stem: Your Philip was first of the brave that day With his colors graspes. I cannot part their lives and say, “This was the traitor, this the true;” God only knows why one should stray, And one go pure death's portals through. They have passed from their mother's clasp and care; But my heart ascends in the yearning prayer That His large love will the two enfold-- My Courtney fair and my P
Shenandoah (search for this): chapter 163
80. the Virginia mother. by Edna Dean Proctor. My home is drear and still to-night, Where Shenandoah murmuring flows; The Blue Ridge towers in the pale moonlight, And balmily the south wind blows; But my fire burns dim, while athwart the wall Black as the pines the shadows fall; And the only friend within my door Is the sleeping o'er, And the antlers hang by the sunset door. What drew our hunters from the hills? They heard the stormy trumpets blow; And leapt adown like April rills When Shenandoah roars below. One to the field where the old flag shines; And one, alas! to the traitor lines! My tears-their fond arms round me thrown-- And the house was hushs colors grasped as in death he lay: And Courtney-well, I only knew Not a man was left of his rebel crew” . . . . . . My home is drear and still to-night, Where Shenandoah murmuring flows; The Blue Ridge towers in the pale moonlight, And balmily the south wind blows; But my fire burns dim, while athwart the wall Black as the pines
Edna Dean Proctor (search for this): chapter 163
80. the Virginia mother. by Edna Dean Proctor. My home is drear and still to-night, Where Shenandoah murmuring flows; The Blue Ridge towers in the pale moonlight, And balmily the south wind blows; But my fire burns dim, while athwart the wall Black as the pines the shadows fall; And the only friend within my door Is the sleeping hound on the moonlit floor. Roll back, O weary years! and bring Again the gay and cloudless morn, When every bird was on the wing, And my blithe summer boys were born! My Courtney fair, my Philip bold, With his laughing eyes and his locks of gold! No nested bird in the valley wide Sang as my heart that eventide. Our laurels blush when May winds call, Our pines shoot high through mellow showers; So rosy flushed, so slender tall, My boys grew up from childhood's hours. Glad in the breeze, the sun, the rain, They climbed the heights or they roamed the plain; And found where the fox lay hid at noon, And the sly fawn drank by the rising moon. O Storm! look up;