But we have rights most sacred, by solemn compact bound, Seal'd by the blood that freely gush'd from many a ghastly wound; When Lee gave up his trusty sword, and his men laid down their arms, It was that they should live at home, secure from war's dire harms. And surely, since we've now disarm'd, we are not to be dreaded; Our old chiefs, who on many fields our trusty columns headed, Are fast within an iron grasp, and manacled with chains, Perchance, 'twixt dreary walls to stay as long as life remains! Oh! shame upon the coward band, who in the conflict dire, Went not to battle for their cause, 'mid the ranks of steel and fire, Yet now, since all the fighting's done, are hourly heard to cry: "Down with the traitors! hang them all, each Rebel dog shall die!" We know that we were Rebels, we don't deny the name, We speak of that which we have done with grief, but not with shame! And we never will acknowledge that the blood the South has spilt, Was shed defending what we deem'd a cause of wrong and guilt. REUNITED. BY FATHER ABRAM J. RYAN.[24] Purer than thy own white snow, Nobler than thy mountain's height, Deeper than the ocean's flow, Stronger than thy own proud might; Oh! Northland, to thy sister land Was late thy mercy's generous deed and grand. Nigh twice ten years the sword was sheathed; Its mist of green o'er battle plain For nigh two decades spring had breathed; And yet the crimson life-blood stain From passive swards had never paled, Nor fields, where all were brave and some had failed. Between the Northland, bride of snow, And Southland, brightest sun's fair bride, Swept, deepening ever in its flow, The stormy wake, in war's dark tide: No hand might clasp across the tears, And blood, and anguish of four deathless years. When summer, like a rose in bloom, Had blossomed from the bud of spring, Oh! who could deem the dews of doom Upon the blushing lips could cling? And who could believe its fragrant light Would e'er be freighted with the breath of blight? Yet o'er the Southland crept the spell, That e'en from out its brightness spread; And prostrate, powerless, she fell, Rachel-like, amid her dead. Her bravest, fairest, purest, best, The waiting grave would welcome, as its guest. The Northland, strong in love, and great, Forgot the stormy days of strife; Forgot that souls with dreams of hate, Or unforgiveness, e'er were rife. Forgotten was each thought and hushed, Save--she was generous and her foe was crushed. No hand might clasp, from land to land; Yea! there was one to bridge the tide; For at the touch of Mercy's hand The North and South stood side by side: The Bride of Snow, the Bride of Sun, In Charity's espousals are made one.