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Maurice G. (Maurice Garland) Fulton.

Southern life in southern literature; selections of representative prose and poetry online

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To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,

Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece,

And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo ! in yon brilliant window niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand !

Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy-Land !




POE S ROOM AT THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA, NO. 13 WEST RANGE

Upper picture, the doorway of the room with the memorial tablet

above it ; middle picture, the arcade in which the room is located ;

lower picture, the interior of the room as it is at present with various

relics relating to Poe



226



EDGAR ALLAN POE 22/

ISRAFEL

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell

" Whose heart-strings are a lute";
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell

Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering above

In her highest noon,

The enamored moon
Blushes with love,

While, to listen, the red levin

(With the rapid Pleiads, even,

Which were seven,)

Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir

And the other listening things)
That Israfeli s fire
Is owing to that lyre

By which he sits and sings
The trembling living wire

Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod,
Where* deep thoughts are a duty
Where Love s a grown-up God

Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty

Which we worship in a star.



228 SOUTHERN LIFE IN SOUTHERN LITERATURE

Therefore, thou art not wrong,

Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassioned song ;
To thee the laurels belong,

Best bard, because the wisest !
Merrily live, and long !

The ecstasies above

With thy burning measures suit
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,

With the fervor of thy lute

Well may the stars be mute !

Yes, Heaven is thine ; but this

Is a world of sweets and sours ;

Our flowers are merely flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss

Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell
Where Israfel

Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well

A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell

From my lyre within the sky.

THE RAVEN

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and

weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,



EDGAR ALLAN POE 229

As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

* Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my chamber

door

Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December ;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow sorrow for the lost

Lenore
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name

Lenore

Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

* Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ;

This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longer,
" Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore ;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping.
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,.
That I scarce was sure I heard you " here I opened wide
the door ;

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,

fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream

before ;



230 SOUTHERN LIFE IN SOUTHERN LITERATURE

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,

" Lenore ! "
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,

" Lenore ! "

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
" Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window

lattice ;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore ;
Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped or

stayed he ;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber

door

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art

sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly

shore
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night s Plutonian

shore 1 "

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore."



EDGAR ALLAN POE 231

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning little relevancy bore ;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as " Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour,
Nothing further then he uttered not a feather then he

fluttered
Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends have

flown before
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown

before."

Then the bird said, " Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden

bore

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of Never nevermore. "

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust

and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird

of yore

Meant in croaking " Nevermore."



232 SOUTHERN LIFE IN SOUTHERN LITERATURE

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom s

core ;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion s velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore !

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an

unseen censer

Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
" Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee by these angels

he hath sent thee

Respite respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore ;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore 1"

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore."

"Prophet I" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or

devil !
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here

ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted
On this home by Horror haunted tell me truly, I implore
Is there is there balm in Gilead ? tell me tell me, I

implore ! "

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore."

" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! prophet still, if bird or

devil !
By that Heaven that bends above us by that God we both

adore
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,



EDGAR ALLAN POE 233

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore ! "

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore."

Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I shrieked,

upstarting
" Get thee back into the tempest and the Night s Plutonian

shore !

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken !
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off

my door !"

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door ;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon s that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o er him streaming throws his shadow on

the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted nevermore 1



ULALUME

The skies they were ashen and sober ;

The leaves they were crisped and sere,

The leaves they were withering and sere ;
It was night in the lonesome October

Of my most immemorial year ;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,

In the misty mid region of Weir :
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,

In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.



234 SOUTHERN LIFE IN SOUTHERN LITERATURE

Here once, through an alley Titanic

Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.

These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriae rivers that roll,
As the lavas that restlessly roll

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole,

That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.



Our talk had been serious and sober,

But our thoughts they were palsied and sere,
Our memories were treacherous and sere,

For we knew not the month was October,

And we marked not the night of the year,
(Ah, night of all nights in the year !)

We noted not the dim lake of Auber

(Though once we had journeyed down here),

Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber

Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.



And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn,
As the star-dials hinted of morn,

At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous luster was born,

Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn,

Astarte s bediamonded crescent

Distinct with its duplicate horn.



EDGAR ALLAN POE 235

And I said " She is warmer than Dian :

She rolls through an ether of sighs,

She revels in a region of sighs :
She has seen that the tears are not dry on

These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion

To point us the path to the skies,

To the Lethean peace of the skies :
Come up, in despite of the Lion,

To shine on us with her bright eyes :
Come up through the lair of the Lion,

With love in her luminous eyes."



But Psyche, uplifting her finger,

Said " Sadly this star I mistrust,
Her pallor I strangely mistrust :

Oh, hasten ! oh, let us not linger !

Oh, fly ! let us fly I for we must."

In terror she spoke, letting sink her

Wings until they trailed in the dust ;

In agony sobbed, letting sink her

Plumes till they trailed in the dust,
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.



I replied " This is nothing but dreaming :
Let us on by this tremulous light !
Let us bathe in this crystalline light !

Its sibyllic splendor is beaming

With hope and in beauty to-night :

See, it flickers up the sky through the night !

Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,



236 SOUTHERN LIFE IN SOUTHERN LITERATURE

And be sure it will lead us aright :
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom,
And conquered her scruples and gloom ;

And we passed to the end of the vista,

But were stopped by the door of a tomb,
By the door of a legended tomb ;

And I said " What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb ? "
She replied " Ulalume Ulalume
T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume ! "

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober

As the leaves that were crisped and sere,
As the leaves that were withering and sere,

And I cried " It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed I journeyed down here,
That I brought a dread burden down here :
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here ?

Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber,
This misty mid region of Weir :

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."



EDGAR ALLAN POE 237

ANNABEL LEE

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee ;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love

I and my Annabel Lee
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.



And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee ;
So that her highborn kinsmen came

And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher

In this kingdom by the sea.



The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me

Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.



SOUTHERN LIFE IN SOUTHERN LITERATURE

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we

Of many far wiser than we
And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee :

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee :
And so, all the nighttide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling my darling my life and my bride,

In the sepulcher there by the sea

In her tomb by the sounding sea.



ELDORADO

Gayly bedight,

A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,

Had journeyed long,

Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old,

This knight so bold,
And o er his heart a shadow

Fell as he found

No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.



EDGAR ALLAN POE 239

And, as his strength

Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow :

" Shadow/ said he,

" Where can it be,
This land of Eldorado ? "

" Over the Mountains

Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,

Ride, boldly ride,"

The shade replied,
" If you seek for Eldorado ! "






PART II. POETRY OF THE CIVIL WAR



JAMES RYDER RANDALL

[James Ryder Randall was born in Baltimore, Maryland, in 1839.
After being educated at Georgetown College he entered business in
Baltimore, but finally drifted into teaching and became professor of
literature at Poydras College in Louisiana. In his latter years he
was connected with The Chronicle of Augusta, Georgia, where he
died in 1 908. During the war he wrote several excellent war poems,
and after the war he continued to write verse in connection with his
newspaper work.]

MY MARYLAND

The despot s heel is on thy shore,

Maryland I
His torch is at thy temple door,

Maryland !

Avenge the patriotic gore
That flecked the streets of Baltimore,
And be the battle-queen of yore,

Maryland, my Maryland !

Hark to an exiled son s appeal,

Maryland !
My Mother State, to thee I kneel,

Maryland !

For life and death, for woe and weal,
Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,

Maryland, my Maryland !
240



JAMES RYDER RANDALL 241

Thou wilt not cower in the dust,

Maryland !
Thy beaming sword shall never rust,

Maryland !

Remember Carroll s sacred trust,
Remember Howard s warlike thrust,
And all thy slumberers with the just,

Maryland, my Maryland !

Come ! t is the red dawn of the day,

Maryland !
Come with thy panoplied array,

Maryland !

With Ringgold s spirit for the fray,
With Watson s blood at Monterey,
With fearless Lowe and dashing May,

Maryland, my Maryland !

Dear Mother, burst the tyrant chain,

Maryland !
Virginia should not call in vain,

Maryland !

She meets her sisters on the plain,
" Sic semper!" tis the proud refrain
That baffles minions back amain,

Maryland !
Arise in majesty again,

Maryland, my Maryland !

Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong,

Maryland !
Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,

Maryland !



242 SOUTHERN LIFE IN SOUTHERN LITERATURE

Come to thine own heroic throng
Stalking with Liberty along,
And chant thy dauntless slogan-song,
Maryland, my Maryland !

I see the blush upon thy cheek,

Maryland !
For thou wast ever bravely meek,

Maryland !

But lo ! there surges forth a shriek,
From hill to hill, from creek to creek,
Potomac calls to Chesapeake,

Maryland, my Maryland I

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll,

Maryland !
Thou wilt not crook to his control,

Maryland !

Better the fire upon thee roll,
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,
Than crucifixion of the soul,

Maryland, my Maryland !

I hear the distant thunder hum,

Maryland !
The Old Line bugle, fife, and drum,

Maryland !

She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb ;
Huzza I she spurns the Northern scum !
She breathes ! She burns ! She 11 come ! She 11 come !

Maryland, my Maryland !



JAMES RYDER RANDALL 243

JOHN PELHAM

Just as the spring came laughing through the strife,

With all its gorgeous cheer,
In the bright April of historic life

Fell the great cannoneer.

The wondrous lulling of a hero s breath

His bleeding country weeps ;
Hushed, in the alabaster arms of Death,

Our young Marcellus sleeps.

Nobler and grander than the child of Rome,

Curbing his chariot steeds,
The knightly scion of a Southern home

Dazzled the land with deeds.

Gentlest and bravest in the battle-brunt

The Champion of the Truth
He bore his banner to the very front

Of our immortal youth.

A clang of sabers mid Virginian snow,

The fiery pang of shells,
And there s a wail of immemorial woe

In Alabama dells :

The pennon droops, that led the sacred band

Along the crimson field ;
The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand,

Over the spotless shield.



244 SOUTHERN LIFE IN SOUTHERN LITERATURE

We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face,

While, round the lips and eyes,
Couched in their marble slumber, flashed the grace

Of a divine surprise.

O mother of a blessed soul on high,

Thy tears may soon be shed !
Think of thy boy, with princes -of the sky,

Among the Southern dead.

How must he smile on this dull world beneath,

Fevered with swift renown,
He, with the martyr s amaranthine wreath,

Twining the victor s crown !

ALBERT PIKE

[For sketch of Pike see page 198.]
DIXIE

Southrons, hear your country call you !
Up, lest worse than death befall you !

To arms ! To arms ! To arms, in Dixie !
Lo ! all the beacon fires are lighted,
Let all hearts be now united !

To arms ! To arms ! To arms, in Dixie !
Advance the flag of Dixie !

Hurrah ! hurrah !
For Dixie s land we take our stand,

And live or die for Dixie 1
To arms ! To arms !

And conquer peace for Dixie !
To arms ! To arms !

And conquer peace for Dixie !



HARRY MCCARTHY 245

Hear the Northern thunders mutter !
Northern flags in South winds flutter !
Send them back your fierce defiance !
Stamp upon the accursed alliance !

Fear no danger ! Shun no labor !
Lift up rifle, pike, and saber !
Shoulder pressing close to shoulder,
Let the odds make each heart bolder !

How the South s great heart rejoices
At your cannons ringing voices !
For faith betrayed, and pledges broken,
Wrong inflicted, insults spoken.

Strong as lions, swift as eagles,

Back to their kennels hunt these beagles !

Cut the unequal bonds asunder !

Let them hence each other plunder !

Swear upon your country s altar
Never to submit or falter,
Till the spoilers are defeated,
Till the Lord s work is completed.



HARRY MCCARTHY

[Harry McCarthy was an Irish actor who enlisted in the Con
federate army from Arkansas. After a time he was granted a dis
charge and continued his career as an actor in Richmond and other
places. Little is known of his subsequent career. He wrote other
war poems, but none attained the popularity of " The Bonnie Blue
Flag."]



246 SOUTHERN LIFE IN SOUTHERN LITERATURE

THE BONNIE BLUE FLAG

We are a band of brothers, and native to the soil,
Fighting for our liberty, with treasure, blood, and toil ;

And when our rights were threatened, the cry rose near
and far:

Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single Star !

Chorus

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for Southern rights, Hurrah !

Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single Star !

As long as the Union was faithful to her trust,

Like friends and like brethren kind were we and just ;

But now when Northern treachery attempts our rights to mar,
We hoist on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single
Star. Chorus

First gallant South Carolina nobly made the stand ;

Then came Alabama, who took her by the hand ;
Next, quickly Mississippi, Georgia, and Florida,
All raised on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single
Star. Chorus

Ye men of valor, gather round the banner of the right,

Texas and fair Louisiana, join us in the fight :

Davis, our loved President, and Stephens, statesman rare,
Now rally round the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single
Star. Chorus

And here s to brave Virginia ! The Old Dominion State
With the young Confederacy at length has linked her fate ;
Impelled by her example, now other States prepare
To hoist on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single
Star. Chorus



JOHN ESTEN COOKE 247

Then cheer, boys, cheer, raise the joyous shout,
For Arkansas and North Carolina now have both gone out ;
And let another rousing cheer for Tennessee be given
The Single Star of the Bonnie Blue Flag has grown to be
eleven. Chorus

Then, here s to our Confederacy ; strong we are and brave,
Like patriots of old we 11 fight our heritage to save ;

And rather than submit to shame, to die we would prefer
So cheer again for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single
Star!

Chorus

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for Southern rights, Hurrah !
Hurrah! for the Bonnie Blue. Flag has gained the Eleventh
Star.



JOHN ESTEN COOKE

[For biographical note in regard to John Esten Cooke see page 1 23.]

THE BAND IN THE PINES
Heard after Pelham died

Oh, band in the pine wood cease !

Cease with your splendid call ;
The living are brave and noble,

But the dead are bravest of all !

They throng to the martial summons,

To the loud triumphant strain,
And the dear bright eyes of long dead friends

Come to the heart again !



248 SOUTHERN LIFE IN SOUTHERN LITERATURE

They come with the ringing bugle,
And the deep drums mellow roar ;

Till the soul is faint with longing
For the hands we clasp no more !

Oh, band in the pine wood cease !

Or the heart will melt with tears,
For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips,

And the voices of old years.



JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON

[John Reuben Thompson was born in Richmond, Virginia, in
1823. After graduating from the University of Virginia, he studied

law and settled in Richmond.
His interest in literary pursuits
caused him, however, to turn
aside from law in 1847 to the
editorship of the Southern
Literary Messenger. In 1859
he moved to Augusta, Georgia,
to become editor of The South
ern Field and Fireside. Be
ing incapacitated by frail health
for military service, Thompson
went during the Civil War to
London, where he wrote articles
for English magazines in de
fense of the Confederacy. In
1 866 he became literary editor
of the New York Evening Post,
JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON and is said to have been one

of the two most distinguished

occupants of that position. He died in New York in 1873. His
poems have unfortunately never been collected in book form.]




JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 249

ASHBY

To the brave all homage render !

Weep, ye skies of June !
With a radiance pure and tender,

Shine, O saddened moon ;
" Dead upon the field of glory /"
Hero fit for song and story

Lies our bold dragoon !

Well they learned, whose hands have slain him,

Braver, knightlier foe
Never fought gainst Moor nor Paynim

Rode at Templestowe :
With a mien how high and joyous,
Gainst the hordes that would destroy us,

Went he forth, we know.

Nevermore, alas ! shall saber

Gleam around his crest
Fought his fight, fulfilled his labor,

Stilled his manly breast
All unheard sweet Nature s cadence,



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