The life-blood spouted from his mouth And sanctified the wicked land; Of martyred saviors what a band Has suffered to redeem the South! I had no malice in my mind; I only cried: “Close up! guide right!” My single purpose in the fight Was steady march with eyes aligned. I glanced along the martial rows, And marked the soldiers’ eyeballs burn; Their eager faces hot and stern,-- The wrathful triumph on their brows. The traitors saw; they reeled and fled: Fear-stricken, gray-clad multitudes Streamed wildly toward the covering woods, And left us victory and their dead. Once more the march, the tiresome plain, The Father River fringed with dykes, Gray cypresses, palmetto spikes, Bayous and swamps and yellowing canes; With here and there plantations rolled In flowers, bananas, orange groves, Where laugh the sauntering negro droves, Reposing from the task of old; And rarer, half-deserted towns, Devoid of men, where women scowl, Avoiding us as lepers foul With sidling gait and flouting gowns. Thibodeaux, La., March, 1863. [Illustration] [Illustration] JOHN PELHAM. BY JAMES R. RANDALL. [In most of the collections this poem is printed under the title of “The Dead Cannoneer,” but the author assures the present editor that the only title he ever gave it is the name of the boy general, “John Pelham,” who was killed at Kelly’s Ford, Virginia, 17th March, 1863.--EDITOR.] Just as the spring came laughing through the strife, With all its gorgeous cheer, In the bright April of historic life, Fell the great cannoneer. The wondrous lulling of a hero’s breath His bleeding country weeps; Hushed in the alabaster arms of Death, Our young Marcellus sleeps. Nobler and grander than the Child of Rome Curbing his chariot steeds, The knightly scion of a Southern home Dazzled the land with deeds. Gentlest and bravest in the battle-brunt, The champion of the truth, He bore his banner to the very front Of our immortal youth. A clang of sabres ’mid Virginian snow, The fiery pang of shells,-- And there’s a wail of immemorial woe In Alabama dells. The pennon drops that led the sacred band Along the crimson field; The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand Over the spotless shield. We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face; While round the lips and eyes, Couched in their marble slumber, flashed the grace Of a divine surprise. O mother of a blessed soul on high! Thy tears may soon be shed; Think of thy boy with princes of the sky, Among the Southern dead!