The sun's bright lances rout the mists Of morning, and, by George, There's Longstreet struggling in the lists, Hemmed in an ugly gorge-- Pope and his Yankees whipped before-- "Bayonet and grape!" hear Stonewall roar, "Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score In Stonewall Jackson's way." Ah, maiden! wait and watch and yearn For news of Stonewall's band; Ah, widow! read with eyes that burn That ring upon thy hand; Ah, wife! sew on, pray on, hope on, Thy life shall not be all forlorn-- The foe had better ne'er been born, Than get in "Stonewall's way." TO THE BELOVED MEMORY OF MAJ.-GEN. TOM GREEN. By CAPTAIN EDWIN HOBBY. In the land of the orange-groves, sunshine and flowers, Is heard the funereal tread, And darkly above it, the war-cloud lowers, And a requiem swells thro' its orange bowers, For the brave and noble dead; Then trail'd be the banners in dust, And muffled the martial drum, His sword in its scabbard shall rust; With their coming no more will he come-- The earth has received to her bosom its trust-- Ashes to ashes--and dust unto dust. In the sunniest realm of that beautiful land, Where spring-time her festival's keeping, Where the blossoms of summer in splendor expand, By the camp-fire light there's a sorrow bow'd band-- Their leader forever is sleeping: Then plumed be their banners in black, And softly the bugle be blown. No more shall he be welcomed back By hearts that were twined to his own, 'Till the voice from the King on his throne To the earth goeth forth, to give up his trust-- Ashes to ashes, and dust unto dust. A sun has been lost from that bright constellation, Whose splendor illumines the sky; It sank as we gazed in lov'd admiration; Its leaves were the glory and pride of the nation, 'Twas Liberty's symbol on high, And darkness now hangs on the face of the day; The illustrious hero's at rest; But the fruit of his genius is left us to say How sublime was the Chief that is taken away; How much of all hearts he possessed. On New Mexico's mountains, his banners waved In the face of the haughtiest foe-- All dangers he scorned, and all odds had he brav'd, And victory seem'd on his banners engrav'd When his genius directed the blow: _Val Verde!_ a name that in song and story Shall brighten our history's pages, 'Till crumbled in dust, is the record of glory, 'Till valor's forgotten, and nation's grow hoary, Undimmed by the shadows of ages.