"Fresh tidings from the battle field!" A widowed mother stands, And lifts the glasses from her eyes With trembling withered hands. "Fresh tidings from the battle field!" "Your only son is slain; He fell with victory on his lips, And a bullet in his brain." The stricken mother staggers back, And falls upon the floor: And the wailing shriek of a broken heart Comes from the cottage door. "Fresh tidings from the battle field!" The wife her needle plies, While in the cradle at her feet Her sleeping infant lies. "Fresh tidings from the battle field!" "Your husband is no more, But he died as soldiers love to die, His wounds were all before." Her work was dropped--"O God" she moans, And lifts her aching eyes; The orphaned babe in the cradle wakes, And joins its mother's cries. "Fresh tidings from the battle field!" A maid with pensive eye Sits musing near the sacred spot Where she heard his last good-bye. "Fresh tidings from the battle-field!" "Your lover's cold in death; But he breathed the name of her he loved With his expiring breath." With hands pressed to her snowy brow, She strives her grief to hide; She shrinks from friendly sympathy-- A widow ere a bride. "Fresh tidings from the battle field!" O, what a weight of woe Is borne upon their blood-stained wings As onward still they go! War! eldest child of Death and Hell! When shall thy horrors cease? When shall the Gospel usher in The reign of love and peace? Speed, speed, the blissful time, O Lord!-- The blessed, happy years-- When plough-shares shall be made of swords, And pruning hooks of spears! The lines on Sheridan and Butler express something more than the poet's righteous indignation at deeds by them in which he can somehow see neither virtue nor valor. As indicative of the feelings of the South in the hour of final defeat and subjugation read "Daughters of Southland" and "My Motherland." One stanza of the first must suffice: Daughters of Southland, weep no more; Their glory's priceless gem Nor peace, nor war can ever mar; There is no change for them. Rejoice! for tho the conqueror's hate Still beats upon our head, Despite our chains there yet remains The memory of our dead. How tender and ardent is the patriotism in these lines: My motherland! My motherland! Though dust is on thy brow, And sack-cloth wraps thy beauteous form, I love thee better now Than when, arrayed in robes of power, Thou send'st thy legions forth To battle with the hosts that poured. From out the mighty North. * * * * *