In the patriotic poems, chiefly war lyrics, notes louder, harsher, and even bitter in their tone as the cause seems lost, strike clear and full upon the ear, disclosing their author as one of the "fire eaters" of the South, loth to accept the verdict of the sword and submit to reconstruction. In this gathering, apart from their connection with the author, two or three of these poems no doubt will be interesting for their historical value alone. "_The Storm_," written April 15, 1861, expresses in borrowed form but with graphic power the terrible suspense that then prevailed: THE STORM. OLD DOMINION. Watchman, tell us of the night, For our hearts with grief are bowed; Breaks no gleam of silver light Through the dark and angry cloud? WATCHMAN. Blacker grows the midnight sky; Lightnings leap and thunders roll; Hist! the tempest draweth nigh,-- Christ, have mercy on our souls! OLD DOMINION. Search the northern sky with care, Whence the tempest issued forth, Are the clouds not breaking there? Watchman, tell us of the North. WATCHMAN. I have searched the Northern skies, Where the wicked storm-fiends dwell; From their seething caldrons rise Clouds as black as smoke from hell. OLD DOMINION. Turn you to the East, my friend; Can you see no rosy streak? Will the long night never end? Day--oh will it never break? WATCHMAN. I have looked; no ray of light Streaks the black horizon there: But the angry face of night Doth its fiercest aspect wear. OLD DOMINION. Raven, cease your dismal croak, Cease to tear my bleeding breast; Turn you where the clouds are broke; Watchman, tell us of the West. WATCHMAN. Black and full of evils dire, Stands the cloud which hides the West; Storm-lights tinge its base with fire, Lightnings play upon its crest. OLD DOMINION. Watchman, scan the Southern sky: Is there not one star in sight? Search with anxious, careful eye-- Watchman, tell us of the night. WATCHMAN. Praise the Lord! there yet is hope! Cease your groans and dry your tears: Lo! the sable cloud doth ope And the clear gray sky appears. Wider grows the field of light As the rent clouds backward fly, And a starry circle bright Silvers all the Southern sky. "The Vision of Blood" written in 1864 is too long, and even if not, too lurid in its imagery to justify reproduction now. Instead let us take this glimpse into those days of death and disaster to the South: TIDINGS FROM THE BATTLE FIELD.