Memories They come, as the breeze comes over the foam, Waking the waves that are sinking to sleep -- The fairest of memories from far-away home, The dim dreams of faces beyond the dark deep. They come as the stars come out in the sky, That shimmer wherever the shadows may sweep, And their steps are as soft as the sound of a sigh And I welcome them all while I wearily weep. They come as a song comes out of the past A loved mother murmured in days that are dead, Whose tones spirit-thrilling live on to the last, When the gloom of the heart wraps its gray o'er the head. They come like the ghosts from the grass shrouded graves, And they follow our footsteps on life's winding way; And they murmur around us as murmur the waves That sigh on the shore at the dying of day. They come, sad as tears to the eyes that are bright; They come, sweet as smiles to the lips that are pale; They come, dim as dreams in the depths of the night; They come, fair as flowers to the summerless vale. There is not a heart that is not haunted so, Though far we may stray from the scenes of the past, Its memories will follow wherever we go, And the days that were first sway the days that are last. The Prayer of the South My brow is bent beneath a heavy rod! My face is wan and white with many woes! But I will lift my poor chained hands to God, And for my children pray, and for my foes. Beside the graves where thousands lowly lie I kneel, and weeping for each slaughtered son, I turn my gaze to my own sunny sky, And pray, O Father, let Thy will be done! My heart is filled with anguish, deep and vast! My hopes are buried with my children's dust! My joys have fled, my tears are flowing fast! In whom, save Thee, our Father, shall I trust? Ah! I forgot Thee, Father, long and oft, When I was happy, rich, and proud, and free; But conquered now, and crushed, I look aloft, And sorrow leads me, Father, back to Thee. Amid the wrecks that mark the foeman's path I kneel, and wailing o'er my glories gone, I still each thought of hate, each throb of wrath, And whisper, Father, let Thy will be done! Pity me, Father of the desolate! Alas! my burdens are so hard to bear; Look down in mercy on my wretched fate, And keep me, guard me, with Thy loving care. Pity me, Father, for His holy sake, Whose broken heart bled at the feet of grief, That hearts of earth, whenever they shall break, Might go to His and find a sure relief. Ah, me, how dark! Is this a brief eclipse? Or is it night with no to-morrow's sun? O Father! Father! with my pale, sad lips, And sadder heart, I pray Thy will be done. My homes are joyless, and a million mourn Where many met in joys forever flown; Whose hearts were light, are burdened now and torn, Where many smiled, but one is left to moan. And ah! the widow's wails, the orphan's cries, Are morning hymn and vesper chant to me; And groans of men and sounds of women's sighs Commingle, Father, with my prayer to Thee.