No _man_ is left behind, None that is brave and true, And the bayonets bright, in the lurid light, With menace stern shine through. Guarded is every street, Brutal the hireling foe; Is there one heart here will boldly dare So brave a deed to do? Look! in her still, dark room, Alone a woman kneels, With Care's deep trace on her pale, worn face And Sorrow's ruthless seals. Wrinkling her placid brow, A matron, she, and fair, Though wan her cheek, and the silver streak Gemming her glossy hair. A moment in silent prayer Her pale lips move, and then, Through the dreary night, like an angel bright, On her mission of love to men. She glideth upon her way, Through the lonely, misty street, Shrinking with dread as she hears the tread Of the watchman on his beat. Onward, ay, onward still, Far past the weary town, Till languor doth seize on her feeble knees, And the heavy hands hang down. But bravely she struggles on, Breasting the cold, dank rain, And, heavy and chill, the mist from the hill Sweeps down upon the plain. Hark! far behind she hears A dull and muffled tramp; But before her the gleam of the watch-fire's beam Shines out from the Southern camp. She hears the sentry's challenge, Her work of love is done; She has fought a good fight, and on Fame's proud height Hath a crown of glory won. Oh, they tell of a Tyrol maiden, Who saved from a ruthless foe Her own fair town, 'mid its mountains brown, Three hundred years ago. And I've read in tales heroic How a noble Scottish maid Her own life gave, her king to save From foul assassin's blade. But if these, on the rolls of honor, Shall live in lasting fame, Oh, close beside, in grateful pride, We'll write this matron's name. And when our fair-haired children Shall cluster round our knee, With wondering gaze, as we tell of the days When we swore that we would be free, We'll tell them the thrilling story, And we'll say to each childish heart, "By this gallant deed, at thy country's need, Be ready to do thy part." _Southern Field and Fireside._ LAND OF THE SOUTH. BY A. F. LEONARD. AIR--"_Friend of my Soul_." Land of the South! the fairest land Beneath Columbia's sky! Proudly her hills of freedom stand, Her plains in beauty lie. Her dotted fields, her traversed streams Their annual wealth renew. Land of the South! in brightest dreams No dearer spot we view. Men of the South! a free-born race, They vouch a patriot line; Ready the foemen's van to face, And guard their country's shrine. By sire and son a haloing light Through time is borne along-- They "nothing ask but what is right, And yield to nothing wrong."