Grandly thou fillest the world's eye to-day, My proud Virginia! When the gage was thrown-- The deadly gage of battle--thou, alone, Strong in thy self-control, didst stoop to lay The olive-branch thereon, and calmly pray We might have peace, the rather. When the foe Turned scornfully upon thee,--bade thee go, And whistled up his war-hounds, then--the way Of duty full before thee,--thou didst spring Into the centre of the martial ring-- Thy brave blood boiling, and thy glorious eye, Shot with heroic fire, and swear to claim Sublimest victory in God's own name,-- Or, wrapped in robes of martyrdom,--to die! JACKSON. A SONNET. Thank God for such a Hero!--Fearless hold His diamond character beneath the sun, And brighter scintillations, one by one, Come flashing from it. Never knight of old Wore on serener brow, so calm, yet bold, Diviner courage: never martyr knew Trust more sublime,--nor patriot, zeal more true,-- Nor saint, self-abnegation of a mould Touched with profounder beauty. All the rare, Clear, starry points of light, that gave his soul Such lambent lustre, owned but one sole aim,-- Not for himself, nor yet his country's fame, These glories shone: he kept the clustered whole A jewel for the crown that Christ shall wear! DIRGE FOR ASHBY. Heard ye that thrilling word-- Accent of dread-- Flash like a thunderbolt, Bowing each head-- Crash through the battle dun, Over the booming gun-- "_Ashby, our bravest one_,-- _Ashby is dead!_" Saw ye the veterans-- Hearts that had known Never a quail of fear, Never a groan-- Sob 'mid the fight they win, --Tears their stern eyes within,-- "Ashby, our Paladin, Ashby is gone!" Dash,--dash the tear away-- Crush down the pain! "_Dulce et decus_," be Fittest refrain! Why should the dreary pall Round him be flung at all? Did not our hero fall Gallantly slain? Catch the last word of cheer Dropt from his tongue; Over the volley's din, Loud be it rung-- "_Follow me! follow me!_"-- Soldier, oh! could there be Paean or dirge for thee, Loftier sung! Bold as the Lion-heart, Dauntless and brave; Knightly as knightliest Bayard could crave; Sweet with all Sidney's grace-- Tender as Hampden's face-- Who--who shall fill the space Void by his grave? 'Tis not _one_ broken heart, Wild with dismay; Crazed with her agony, Weeps o'er his clay: Ah! from a thousand eyes Flow the pure tears that rise; Widowed Virginia lies Stricken to-day!